Disorder
by SocksForDobby
Summary: AU after GOF. Fifteen-year-old Harry Potter expects his decomposing corpse to be used as a footstool after being kidnapped by Voldemort, but is kept alive. "Potter has no training of the mind. He will be very easy to break."
1. Desk

_**Title: Disorder**_

**Beta**_**: **_DancingHorses

**Summary: **AU after GOF. Fifteen-year-old Harry Potter expects his decomposing corpse to be used as a footstool after being kidnapped by Voldemort, but is kept alive. "Potter has no training of the mind. He will be very easy to break."

**Disclaimer: **I do not own "Harry Potter", nor the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

**Characters:** Harry Potter, Lord Voldemort, Severus Snape, Remus Lupin

**Rating: M**

**Warnings (for future chapters): **Abuse, Corporal Punishment, Humiliation, Non-Con, Profanity, Violence

**Author's Note: **Be forewarned, this story is dark, and depressing. It does not have a happy beginning or middle, and I do not guarantee a happy ending. It is not my intent to portray Harry or Voldemort as sexy or sensual. It is not the aim of this story to have Harry kidnapped by Voldemort and raped by him, then have him fall in love with Voldemort and refuse to leave him. It is not, despite any and all indications, a 'master/pet' or BDSM story, though those interested in the lifestyle may find this to their liking, to a degree. I do not write non-con romance, or erotica; therefore, there will be no romance or erotica in this story. I do appreciate all feedback, but never ask for reviews, as a policy.

* * *

**Chapter I: Desk**

"Kitty, kitty, kitty!" Harry darted upstairs after the cat. He did not want her to find a way into his bedroom to get his owl – there had been enough bloodshed in the past few weeks, he was sure.

The Dursleys were cat-sitting. Mr. and Mrs. Grunnings of Grunnings' Drills had asked them to cat-sit their feline while they were on holiday in Bora Bora. Uncle Vernon was taking this as a huge honour, but Harry really didn't think that it was. After all, if Mr. Grunnings thought the Dursleys were _that_ great, why not board the cat at a veterinarian clinic and take the Dursleys _with_ them to Bora Bora?

All things kitty-duty had fallen to Harry. Aunt Petunia was deathly allergic, and Dudley was only interested in wanting to hang it up by its tail. Harry didn't mind the kitty – it provided him a much needed distraction.

The kitty had run into Dudley's room. Not that this surprised Harry much. Dudley's room was such a mess that it had probably been colonised by mice. Kitties loved mice.

"Kitty... kitty?" Harry brought his voice down to a whisper as he peered into Dudley's stinky room. Strictly speaking, he wasn't _allowed_ in Dudley's room. He had _never_ been allowed in Dudley's room, but Aunt Petunia would _kill_ Harry if he just let the kitty shed all over Dudley's bed.

Dudley's room, once upon a time, had had blue walls and blue carpet. The blue walls, you could still see a bit of between the shelves of junk. The carpet had been buried under broken toys and empty sweet wrappers long ago.

The kitty was rubbing up against Dudley's unused desk, meowing insistently.

"Jenkins, let's get out of here," Harry whispered to the striped feline. "Dudley's bad news."

His heart stopped a moment when he spotted Dudley's big, clunky computer. He had heard from the Muggle world that computers were the wave of the future – That anything you needed to know, you could find on a computer.

Harry seriously doubted that he would find anything on Dudley's computer about Voldemort, especially because the young wizard had not the slightest clue how to use one. But the idea alone enticed him, and he took an eager step forward. After all, Dudley wasn't around, and Harry was desperate for some real news.

He stepped towards the desk, but a terrible stench stopped him.

"Ugh." Harry made a face. "What's Dudley keeping in that desk? If it's food, I'll kill him. I'm so tired of following his stupid diet plan–"

He opened a desk drawer to reveal two-day-old fish and chips from McRoy's – something Dudley was apparently saving for a rainy day.

"Oh, that's gross," Harry complained, as the kitty began to investigate. "Don't eat it, kitty – it's bad. It's–" He stopped short, before pulling something out from under the fish and chips wrappers.

It was a magazine – perfect for Dudley, because it seemed to be mostly pictures. But it wasn't a sports magazine like Quidditch Quarterly, or a kid's one like Beedlum and Goose, which all of the firsties were subscribed to.

No, it was a Muggle magazine – full of pictures of girls. Women. Women a lot older than Harry or Dudley. Old women. Like, twenty-five years old. Women wearing nothing but their knickers! Seriously! Not even a brassiere!

Harry had never seen a woman without a brassiere on before. He had also never seen a woman without knickers before. He had seen them in _almost_ nothing, like that swimsuit poster Dean had on their dormitory wall last year. But that was _almost_ nothing. …Harry decided that _almost _was a good word.

Harry had missed sex ed at Muggle school by going to Hogwarts where there was no such thing, but he had never felt like he was missing anything. After all, he knew what sex was, and the guys Harry roomed with talked dirty about girls all the time. Rumour had it that the first week of school, Snape had all the fifth-years brew 'don't-get-pregnant' potions.

But Harry had never actually seen or experienced sex before. And looking at Dudley's dirty magazine – the way those two ladies were going at it – he wasn't sure he wanted to.

He stood up, still grasping the magazine. Perhaps, if he was very lucky and took the magazine downstairs, Dudley would finally get busted.

* * *

"Diddy!" Aunt Petunia cried out as Dudley snatched the magazine from Harry's hands.

Harry slipped into the sitting room and looked out the window, searching the skies and streets, as Aunt Petunia screeched.

He had gotten a letter from Sirius a week ago that made mention of 'awfully wonderful', 'terribly amazing', 'fantastic' plans, but that also warned him not to get his hopes up, because there were risks and no guarantees.

That was pretty vague, but Harry trusted Sirius more than any other living person, except for maybe Dumbledore. If Sirius said it was wonderful, it was. Harry wished he had more clues as to what Sirius was talking about, though. He had been revealed to Harry as his innocent godfather, and had given him the best broomstick available in the UK. He couldn't think of anything more terrific than that, but having something to anticipate put some excitement into his life where there was none.

"Boy!" Aunt Petunia shrieked, waving the dirty magazine in Harry's face. The unblinking model on the cover looked weird to him, now that he had gotten used to moving photographs. "You had better explain yourself!"

Why was it that every time Harry tried to get Dudley in trouble, it backfired?

"I went into Dudley's room to get the kitty. I... um... a drawer was open, and I saw the–"

"You stole it!" Dudley accused, jamming a fat finger in Harry's face.

A normal, reasonable person would have ignored Harry's role in Dudley's magazine discovery, or even thanked him for discovering it. The Dursleys weren't like that.

"Stealing!" Aunt Petunia was still rambling when Harry bothered to listen again. "That's what they teach you at that no-good school? Well, now you've ruined our day! I can't leave you alone here – Vernon would be so angry if I left you alone to steal our valuables."

"Anger management classes might help." Harry received a slap for his comment on his uncle's anger issues.

"Mum!" Dudley whined, "We can't take him with us!"

Harry didn't want to go to the mall with the Dursleys, especially if Piers Polkiss was going. He didn't want to go in boring shop after boring shop, dreaming of the Galleons he had in his vault that he could spend on what he wanted in the wizarding world. He also didn't want to get pushed and shoved by Dudley and Piers, if he could avoid it.

No, he'd much rather stay put on Privet Drive.

But he didn't have much of a choice, and that was how the mess began – with a desk. A desk drawer. A disorderly desk drawer.

Harry hated desks.

**Coming up next in **_**Disorder**_**...  
**_**Chapter II: Disappeared**_


	2. Disappeared

**Disclaimer: I do not own "Harry Potter" or the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story. **

* * *

**Chapter II: Disappeared**

The ride to the shopping mall was excruciatingly slow for Harry. He had been forced to sit in the back seat of the Dursley's station wagon with Dudley's pal, Piers Polkiss. Piers was slinky and slimy, with short curly hair, and a grin that gave Harry the creeps. It was a grin that reached his eyes, but the look in his eyes wasn't reassuring.

One shop Dudley and Piers spent a long time in was the sweet shop. They bought and swiped more sweets than Harry could ever eat. Harry would never think of eating eight kilos of jelly babies in one sitting, but that was the plan in Dudley's mind, he was sure.

Harry focused intently on a container of sour sweets. He didn't want to look at Aunt Petunia, who kept shooting him dark looks, no doubt because it was somehow _his_ fault that Dudley was not as innocent as she thought he was. He didn't want to look at Dudley or Piers, because they would find a way to get him into _bad_ trouble. And he didn't want to look at the shop lady, because once she realised sweets were being stolen, she'd naturally blame Harry.

_I wonder if everyone is blaming me for what's going on with Voldemort. Maybe that's why no one is telling me anything. Maybe they don't want me to feel bad. Maybe they don't want me to be scared, like when they kept me in the dark about Sirius. Maybe the Ministry is blaming me for Voldemort's return, and wants to send me to Azkaban, so Dumbledore is hiding me at the Dursleys, forever and ever._

The sick feeling that Harry had been having for a month came back, very strongly, like it did whenever he thought too much about Voldemort, and the future of not only the wizarding world, but the human race.

"I've got to use the loo," Harry said abruptly. He didn't wait for an answer from Aunt Petunia – he just dashed.

The loo had two stalls, both empty, so Harry darted into one, seeking a hiding place from his so-called family, and other Muggles. He didn't want to be around all of this normal, every-day Muggle stuff. He want to be in the wizarding world, perfectly aware of everything that was going on. He wanted to have attended Cedric's funeral. He wanted to know what Sirius' great surprise was.

Four weeks before, Harry had witnessed the first death in his life – that he could recall. He had witnessed Voldemort coming back to life. He witnessed his father's former best friend cutting off his own hand. He had discovered that Draco Malfoy's dad was – for sure – a Death Eater.

And he had seen Cedric Diggory get killed, by Voldemort.

Harry gagged over the toilet bowl, but nothing came out. He had been cursed with no gag reflexes, apparently.

He reached to grab some toilet paper, to wipe the spit from around his mouth, but didn't, because there was something protruding from behind the toilet paper. Something Harry didn't want to touch.

A penis was coming through a hole in the wall.

Harry startled, jumping back so much that he nearly tripped over the toilet. He had heard rumours about these types of situations before – there was even a hole punched out in one of the stalls in a Hogwarts loo. But it was a boarding school, so that made sense. But in a public loo? In the mall? In Little Hangleton?

"Uh, uh, uh... no thank you," Harry sputtered. He turned and ran from the loo, neither turning back nor stopping to see who it had been.

_That's disgusting! _Harry's heart pounded as he ran back to the sweet shop. _Why would anyone want to do that? What kind of pervert would touch a strange guy's... ugh!_

"Where's Piers?" Aunt Petunia demanded when Harry got back to the shop. "He followed you to the loo!"

Harry's stomach did somersaults, and he thought he would be sick, yet again.

_That was Piers in there! That was him! No wonder he had been looking at me so creepily! He knew that hole was there!_

Logically, that was... illogical. Piers had no way of knowing that Harry would run to the loo, no way of knowing Harry would use a stall instead of a urinal. No way of knowing that the loo would be empty. He had preyed upon Harry, yeah, but it wasn't a complete set-up. And Piers wasn't gay; Harry knew that.

_But why would he stick himself through that hole, then? And if that wasn't him, how come I didn't see him outside?_

Harry opened his mouth to respond, but was interrupted by someone speaking behind him.

"Harry." It was Lupin, accompanied by a pink-haired lady and Mad-Eye Moody – the real Mad-Eye Moody – who stuck out like a sore thumb amongst Muggles. Harry didn't think a werewolf, Mad-Eye, and a pink-haired lady should go out together in Muggle public. Ever.

Or at least, the Dursleys would think that. Harry didn't care. He liked people who were different – who weren't uniform – like everyone in Little Whinging seemed to be.

"Harry, come with us. We must go now," Lupin said. He was taking quick, short breaths, and sounded like he had just run a long ways. He looked pretty much the same as the last time Harry had seen him, except his clothes had a couple new patches.

"Huh?" Harry said. "Wait– Huh? Why are– Why are you guys here?"

_Polyjuice_.

"Wait, prove to me that you're Professor Lupin." He had learned his lesson four weeks ago with Barty Crouch, Jr. He had been under the illusion for months, as had most people, that the Defence teacher was an ex-Auror, when it was really a Death Eater using Polyjuice potion.

"Harry, we haven't time!" Lupin panted, reaching out a hand for Harry. "Trust me!"

"No!" Moody growled. "The boy's right! Constant vigilance!"

"Um... um, the thing you took from me in third-year... the parchment. What'd you have to say to wipe it clean."

The Marauders Map. The map Harry's father, Sirius, Lupin, and Peter Pettigrew had put together when they were about Harry's age.

"Mischief–" Lupin began to say the answer to a question that only a few living people knew the answer to.

Harry felt hands latch onto him. Cold hands, with a tight grip. They grabbed him from behind and before he could register what was happening, before he could yell for help, the world around him began to dissolve into a white mist.

And then there was darkness. Terrible darkness.

* * *

Darkness. Darkness was an interesting thing. In darkness, you could not see anything. Even if you strained your eyes, attempting to see past the darkness, it was still dark.

Harry knew all about darkness. He was used to it. The cupboard under the stairs had usually been dark, and even Harry's bedroom at the Dursleys was pretty dim, because Uncle Vernon had taken out the light bulb, not believing in wasting electricity on 'the boy'.

But darkness like this, he had never known.

He was not asleep. He knew he wasn't. This wasn't like a dream. In a dream, you could not feel, or smell, like he could at the moment. He was either awake in a dark room, or–

_You're blind. Your eyes have officially gone to hell. You will never see again._

He tried to bring a hand up to his eyes, to see if his glasses were still there, to see if his _eyes_ were still there, but found that he couldn't. He could not feel anything tying him down, but there had to be something, because he was incapable of movement. Unless there was a spell...

_Maybe there's a spell that paralyses people. _The thought had never occurred to him. He had never wanted to leave someone stock-still, unable to move. He could not imagine why anyone would want to do that.

He suspected that he was lying on a floor. His head, shoulders, buttocks and calves were pressed against icy-cold concrete or tile. Or flat stone. It brought a chill to his body. His shoulders ached from the hardness, his spine ached from the cold.

_You're naked,_ he realised with sudden horror. _The reason you can feel the stone and are so cold is because you're not wearing any clothes. _

Embarrassment and shame flooded through him. He had always been the modest one. The overly modest one. Harry knew he was really skinny, pale, and unattractive. Ugly. His face wasn't so bad, but you could see all his ribs, and he didn't have any chest hair, even though he was fifteen. His arse was skinny, and his penis was too small.

He was self-conscious, but couldn't move to cover himself. It was dark, assuming Harry's eyes weren't poked out, so at least no one could see him.

His nakedness brought his attention to something he had not paid attention to as of yet – his penis.

Something was happening to his penis. He could feel something rubbing it. Rubbing it firmly, but gently. It didn't hurt. Sometimes it tickled a bit, but for the most part, it gave him a feeling that made him want to squirm. He could feel a pulsing, a feeling down there that felt hot, compared to the cold everywhere else. He could feel a wetness, just a bit.

Harry had experimented a couple times over the past year or so. Not much, because he had an immense fear of getting caught. He could remember being little, and playing with himself in the cupboard under the stairs. Aunt Petunia had caught him, spanked him, called him a 'dirty boy', and had warned him that the next time, she would cut it off. He wasn't exactly worried about someone punishing him for it at school, but God forbid anyone catch him doing it.

It wasn't as if he had known what he was doing, anyway. He didn't have the patience, to keep rubbing so fast – to finish. He hadn't had the concentration.

But whoever – or whatever – was doing this knew what he – or she – or it – was doing. The fingers would massage in different motions, squeeze his balls, and do all sorts of things. The fingers were not hot or cold. They were calloused-feeling, and yet, did not feel foreign at all. They felt as if they could be Harry's own.

But they weren't. Harry couldn't move his fingers.

_Someone is molesting you. Touching you. Touching you 'down there'. _He remembered being primary-school-aged, and someone drilling it into his head that he was to never touch, or let another one touch him there, that it was bad. He couldn't remember who had told him that – surely it hadn't been his aunt or uncle. They hadn't cared enough to tell him that. Perhaps it had been a primary school teacher.

Regardless of who had told him, _someone_ was _touching_ him. Someone was _touching_ him and it was _bad_. It was _dark_, someone was touching him, and Harry couldn't see them or stop them.

The feeling was unbearable. He felt like he was going to explode. But it wasn't a bad unbearable. If he had consented to it, knew who it was, wasn't so scared, knew where he was, and other things, it would have felt good.

_You're being touched and think it feels good? You're nuts! No wonder you're a dirty boy._

His mouth and throat were both dry. His tongue felt like Crookshanks' – rough, dry, and foreign.

Harry opened his mouth, and tried to speak – croak out a protest, a scream for help – moan, either _because_ of the pleasure his body felt, or in protest of it.

But nothing came out. Nothing... unless his hearing, as well as his eyesight, was shot.

The feeling the quick fingers was given him was starting to become unbearable. All Harry wanted was for the person to stop. He wanted to wake up from this nightmare.

_(Gloryhole-induced nightmar)_

And yet, if it stopped now, he didn't know what he'd do.

And then he exploded, falling back into oblivion.

**Coming up next in **_**Disorder**_**...  
Chapter III: Demon**


	3. Demon

**Disclaimer: I do not own "Harry Potter" or the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story. **

* * *

**Chapter III: Demon**

"Yes, that's it now. Open your eyes. That's it."

Harry's eyes fluttered open. He was no longer in the dark, but in the light. The very opposite.

_You've died, _Harry realised, the earlier events in the dark rushing back to him. _You went into the light, and you died. You had your first orgasm and it killed you._ _Way to go, Potty._

"Focus them," a smooth voice said. His voice was soft, and caring. It was the kind of voice you instinctively trusted. It actually sounded a lot like Lupin's voice – strong, but still gentle. Only Lupin's voice was rough, not smooth, so it couldn't be him...

_Maybe all that symbolism drivel Trelawney shoves down our throat makes sense. Maybe I was being hurt by someone – Piers, maybe – when it was dark, and when I was rescued, I woke up to the light. Light, dark. Good, evil._

He closed his eyes tightly for a moment, and then opened them again, trying to bring his surroundings into focus. He could begin to make out a few dark shapes in the whiteness – one shadow moved out of the way, out of view.

"The vision change is going to take some getting used to," the voice continued, "but it can be done – the blinking will help."

_Vision change? What vision change? _Harry's vision couldn't change. Not unless it got worse. Harry knew this for a fact. During his first year at Hogwarts, tired of repairing his glasses, he had asked Madame Pomfrey to fix his eyesight for good. She had told him that it wasn't an option for him, that he had too many problems with his eyes – near-sightedness and depth perception, combined with the blast of the Killing Curse's green light on his still-developing eyes. Apparently only people with super-mild eye problems could have their vision magically restored to perfect.

Harry's eye issues were not super-mild at all.

"Vision changes?" he tried to ask, but not much sound came out. He couldn't make much sound with his dry throat.

He did, however, take the suggestion and begin blinking.

"I am sure you will want something to drink," the voice continued, up close again. The shadow – the person – came back into Harry's view.

_Where am I? What's going on? _Harry assessed his situation as he continued to blink. He was still lying on a floor, but this was not hard – it was soft carpet. And when it came to bringing his hand up to rub his eyes... he found that he could.

That helped bring everything into focus. Her was not wearing his glasses, but found that he could see every bit of the white ceiling better than he might have been able to with them on.

A face looked down at him and smiled. A smile that displayed perfectly straight and white teeth, far too many of them.

Harry yelped, and backed up on his elbows. He didn't get far though, due to a rush of blood leaving his head and the fact that he ran into a fireplace. The stones were warm from the fire in the hearth.

"Calm, Pet," Voldemort said, easing himself into an armchair facing the fire. "I do not like the look in your eye – it is distressing."

Harry's heart pounded as he stared at the villain. Harry was nude, and utterly defenceless, his wand apparently confiscated with his clothing. Even with his wand, he was nothing up against Voldemort. Were it not for the supposed "twin cores", he would have died four weeks ago.

Voldemort's skin was thin, tight around his skill. It was almost white, no colour in his cheeks. His ears were little more than small bits of skin surrounding tiny holes on either side of his head. His nose was flat, with only slits for nostrils. The thin lips were just as pale as the skin. He wore long, trailing, voluminous black robes that not only covered his feet, but inches of floor.

He was scarier looking than Harry had remembered.

"Come away from the fire," Voldemort beckoned with one abnormally long finger. "It would not due for my new pet to get burned."

Harry did not budge. Of course Voldemort wouldn't want Harry to get burned up – he wanted to kill him with his own hands.

Harry was a Gryffindor. Gryffindors were known for their bravery. But Harry, as a Gryffindor, knew the difference between no fear, and bravery. You could be scared enough to shit your trousers, and still be brave.

But right now, he only felt the former.

"Now, Pet, I realise that you are afraid at the moment, and I will not punish you for your disobedience. But such behaviour will not be tolerated in the future. Inadvertent blunders will be treated with a gentle, although firm, guided hand, but deliberate misconduct will result in consequences most severe."

_There that word is again. 'Pet'. _For the third time, Voldemort had called Harry that. 'Pet'. As if he were... well, Harry wasn't sure.

"I-" he began to cough, his throat so dry it began to hurt.

"Breathe." Voldemort leaned forward.

Harry glared up at Voldemort. _I am not your pet,_ he tried to tell him via the darkest look he could muster.

Voldemort chuckled. It wasn't comforting. "Ah, but you are my pet."

It took Harry a moment to realise it, but Voldemort had understood exactly what Harry had been trying to get across.

He chuckled once again. "Yes – I can read the mind. Every thought, regardless of how trivial, I can hear. I can see images, hear and view memories... looking at your mind now, I can see everything."

Everything? How could Voldemort see _anything_? Everything? The cupboard under the stairs, the incident with the spiders, the incredibly guilty, shameful thing in the dark? _Everything_?

"You have been here for three days," Voldemort calmly said, as if he were discussing the weather. "You were unconscious when brought in – I realise it was your first time Disapparating. While you were asleep you were drained, your vision was repaired, and you were deemed in perfect health.

A sickening feeling filled Harry's stomach. Bile filled his mouth, as the events of the previous night (_or night before that? This afternoon? _He had no a clue) flooded through his brain. He wanted to add 'and were touched in a bad way' to Voldemort's list, but couldn't speak without coughing, and didn't want to give Voldemort the satisfaction of watching him struggle.

"Here, Pet will spend the rest of its days. All 65,784 of them – an approximation, of course, and that is only assuming I decide to reside here for the next one hundred sixty-five years, which is highly... unlikely." Voldemort licked his lips with his forked tongue. "As of today, Pet is permitted in this room only – it is not to go through any doors."

_And let me guess – there are wards and spells that will zap me if I do. _Harry looked around the room. It was large, and though decorated, not lavishly so. The walls were brownish, and the plush carpet was, too. There was a massive bed in the centre of the room, bigger than any bed Harry had ever seen before in his life. There was also a small bedside table, and the chair Voldemort was in – no other furniture.

But most important were the two doors, shut, that led to escape. Freedom.

The room itself was windowless, letting no sunlight in, leaving you unable to tell whether it was raining or snowing. There were no books, toys, or drawers that might hold a bit of interest.

_It's not a room. It's a cage._

"Pet will never speak unless spoken to, to any of Master's servants, unless permitted otherwise. Pet will never stand on its feet, but will remain on the floor, unless told otherwise. Pet will obey Master's word at all times." Voldemort's red eyes flashed. "Nothing is debatable."

Harry stayed pressed up against the warm stones. He did not move. He just glared at Voldemort, to hide both his terror and disbelief.

Somehow, Lupin, Moody, and the pink-haired lady had known that Voldemort was attempting to kidnap Harry, and had tried to stop it. Voldemort had still managed, but he had apparently not kidnapped Harry with the intention of killing him, which one would think would be Voldemort's aim.

65,000-odd days was a long time. Harry wasn't a maths whiz like Hermione, but he knew how many days were in a year. 365. A lot of years had to go by for there to be 65,000-odd days. A lot.

Voldemort didn't intend to kill him. Voldemort intended for Harry to live out the average lifespan of a healthy wizard, about one hundred eighty years. Everyone knew that Voldemort wanted to kill Harry. The simple fact that everyone knew it didn't seem like something that would change Voldemort's mind.

Voldemort stood from his chair. "You are very weak – you must eat something. Laslo!"

A cowering house-elf appeared in the room. He, like all other enslaved house-elves, wore something like a pillow case. He stared at the floor and nervously squeaked, "Yes, Master? How may Laslo help Master?"

Voldemort didn't even look at the quivering house-elf. "Fetch a plate of tuna, and a bowl of milk." He smiled at Harry. "My kitten must eat."

* * *

Logic told Harry that the plate of cooked, shredded tuna was not poisonous. Voldemort didn't kidnap Harry to poison him. He would kill him by magic – strangulation perhaps – but it would be by his own hand or not at all.

Harry liked fish. He liked to eat his fish from McRoys, doused in vinegar. Hermione had convinced him to try tartar sauce, and he liked that, too. Fish was a British staple, one might say. But tuna was not his favourite. Especially without a fork.

He sniffed the bowl of milk. Milk. Liquid. A beverage. Something to soothe a sandpaper tongue. Creamy, cold milk.

_If you drink it, and it's mixed with a weird potion, it doesn't matter. If you don't drink it, you'll die from dehydration._

Well aware of Voldemort's eyes watching him, he carefully picked up the porcelain bowl and brought it to his lips, preparing to welcome the soothing drink.

But he did not have the chance – the bowl lifted from his hands and floated gently down to the floor, to its original spot, without sloshing or spilling a drop.

Harry imagined a thousand ways to hex Voldemort. How dare he offer him milk so desperately needed, and take it away? That was the type of guy Voldemort was – not a villain, but a demon.

"Kitten will drink the milk," Voldemort said. "Kitten with eat and drink without use of its hands, or not at all. Master is watching."

What was with all the third-person? What was with the use of 'kitten'? Harry was not a pet, or a kitten, or an 'it'. He was a human being, and would not play this twisted game.

"Drink, Kitten," Voldemort urged.

"No," Harry said, as much as it hurt his throat to say, as hoarse and quiet as it came out.

Voldemort's demon eyes flashed. His red eyes seemed redder still. "Drink, Kitten, or you will die."

_You won't let me die. You would have done it already._

"Kitten, remember my words; behaviour such was this will not be tolerated. Kitten is to listen to its master's words."

_I hear, but it's hard to _listen_. I also kind of remember you saying that I wouldn't be punished, because I'm afraid._

And he was. Very afraid. He didn't shake or quake like the house-elf, Laslo, had done, because he had pride and bravery. He didn't cry for the same reasons. But inside, he was crying and shaking both.

"Kitten will be unable to touch the bowl with its hands." Voldemort walked with fluidly and grace, reminiscent of Snape, over to one of the doors. "Kitten will eat its food, lest it spoil, before I return. If not, Kitten will suffer the consequences, and neither Kitten nor I want that, do we, Kitten?" Voldemort paused, as if waiting for a response. "And it can stop wishing for a rescue – it will not come. Kitten is home."

Voldemort left, leaving Harry stunned. Harry had been thinking of rescue – the thought of Snape had provoked it.

There was no way that Dumbledore would let Voldemort keep Harry trapped like this, as his... slave or something. Sirius and the Weasleys wouldn't stand for it. And Lupin was on their side too, right?

_They will come. It's my once yearly end-of-the-year adventure come early, is all. And I'm okay – I'm no different than I was when I came here._

He looked over his naked body, to be sure, his eyes coming to rest on his bits. He was all the same, except...

Harry touched it, the guilt he felt over the terrible ordeal in the dark/nightmare eating him. Tears began to fall, and with no one in the room to put a front on for, he did not stop them.

**Coming up next in **_**Disorder**_**...  
Chapter IV: **_**Devising**_


	4. Devising

**Disclaimer: I do not own "Harry Potter" or the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story. **

* * *

**Chapter IV: Devising**

Severus Snape stood after Dumbledore's opening of the Order of the Phoenix. He hated speaking at Order meetings – it served as a constant reminder of the terrible mistakes he had made, of why he was serving as a spy in the first place. He was usually provoked by Black's middle finger, by sympathetic looks, by angry outbursts.

But the last one they'd had, the night before, had been different from any Order meeting there had ever been since they restarted the Order four weeks ago. Potter's capture by the Dark Lord had led to a leap in maturity in Black, which translated into depression. That was not to say that Black was any more reasonable than a fifth-year student, but it had made him less obnoxious, at least.

Overall, everyone had one concern, and a single focus. The meetings were about something more specific than 'Voldemort is back, what do we do?' – they were about rescuing Potter.

And that made Severus' role as a spy more important than ever.

It made him more than a spy. It made him a secret agent. Wonderful.

"We need to devise a plan to rescue Potter," Severus began.

"Yeah, no shit, Snape," Black shot out. He looked terrible. He had just recently begun to look civilised – hair neatly combed, shaven, robes clean – but now he looked like he had taken several steps back. There were dark circles under his eyes and a three-day growth of beard on his face; his hair was unbrushed and his robes were wrinkled and dirty. Severus supposed he should be grateful that Lupin made him clean his teeth, or the meetings would be that much more miserable.

"Sirius," Lupin reprimanded in a near whisper. Severus saw the werewolf slip his furry palm underneath the table and grip Black's hand. Very discreetly, of course.

"The Dark Lord does not intend to kill Potter," Severus spoke carefuly, reporting only necessary information. "Potter is not in mortal danger. That means that we have time to come up with a foolproof plan."

Foolproof plans were important in a room filled with mostly Gryffindors and Hufflepuffs.

"We need to act as soon as possible," young Nymphadora Tonks argued, making eyes at Lupin.

The girl was pathetic, Severus thought to himself. Although Black and Lupin were very private about their affair, the affair they'd been having since Nymphadora was only a toddler, it was not a secret, per se. The Hufflepuff was just oblivious, as most Hufflepuffs were. It was amusing to watch her make moon eyes at a homosexual werewolf, however, so Severus did not interject.

"I disagree," Arthur Weasley put in. To his credit, Lupin nodded in agreement. "If we try to help and fail, that could put Harry in greater peril."

"Potter will never be put in _mortal_ peril." Severus reinforced that idea for the benefit of the Ravenclaws and the more simple Houses. "The Dark Lord has made mention of punishing him to a select few, but I cannot imagine it will be anything more than psychological, which may make the boy miserable, but not kill him." Severus did not bother to feign sympathy. He held Potter in disdain, and did not bother to try to keep it a secret. It wasn't as if the notion made the other Order members look any further down on him – they couldn't.

"I'll be damned the day that monster tries to mess with my godson's brain!" Black pounded his fist on the table.

Severus knew little of the Dark Lord's plans concerning Potter, who was to be referred to as 'Pet' by the Dark Lord's followers at all times, under the threat of terrible punishment. He had a feeling that a few of the privileged Death Eaters, ones in the 'inner circle', would eventually gain access to the 'Pet', and that was something Severus hoped for – it would make stealing him away so much easier.

Dumbledore knew why the Dark Lord was so keen to keep Potter alive, but he did not tell Severus. Or tell anyone, for that, matter. He operated on a need-to-know basis, which seemed to him both a blessing and a curse.

"Then prepare to be damned, Black, because I am sure mind games with Potter have begun," Severus said. "I can vouch for him being in, ah... comfortable conditions. He is not in a dank dungeon, but in a comfortable series of rooms." He found it unnecessary to say that the rooms belonged to the Dark Lord, which would only begin a riot.

"Where the Dark Lord – and consequently, Potter – resides is a large, one-storey building, in the country. It is not Unplottable, as many Muggle lovers are brought there for– Ah..."

"You needn't say, Severus," Lupin voiced. "We know."

"It is, however, well hidden. It is a series of rooms and suites, linked by winding halls. It was created by Death Eaters, and therefore has little vulnerability. There are no windows, and only two doors leading directly to the outside. A major weakness is a courtyard, located in the centre of the building – there are four doors leading out to it. However, I am certain the space above is heavily warded."

"I said that P-Potter is not in a dungeon, although there is one." Severus had nearly slipped and called the boy 'Pet', according to his strict new habit. That would not go over well in the Order meeting. "It is used to house prisoners, so consequently it is not only heavily warded, but guarded. There is, however, a small culvert that allows water to stream through – it is only small enough for a very slender person to slide through, and that would be assuming you could remove the iron bars."

"Well, the obvious move would be a diversion," Arthur Weasley very sensibly – and Gryffindorly – brought up. "Groups try to come in from each doorway – that way one could fly into the courtyard unnoticed."

"Once Death Eaters became aware of a breach in wards, they will strengthen them, and watch for you so that you cannot infiltrate," Severus retorted. "That is a poor plan, Weasley."

"What of finding a way to slip into the dungeons, and posing as a prisoner for a brief time?" Lupin suggested. "Assuming one was slender enough, they could slip through the bars. Dora is thin, and perhaps could make herself more so. If the guards were given a sleeping potion–"

Gryffindors were incapable of planning.

"Stop it, Lupin – you're making my ears bleed," Severus complained. "Has anyone a plan worth sharing? You've had forty-eight hours – more than enough time – to come up with one."

"Well, what have you come up with?" Black challenged. "If you're such a genius."

"I do not see any way to smuggle Potter out, without using someone from the inside. That would, naturally, have to be me," Severus said. "I know precisely where he is, and when to best get him. I would need someone to hand him off to, to avoid my status as a spy being compromised."

"Potter may be uncooperative. We need to not only suspect it, but plan on it," Severus continued.

"Why would he be uncooperative?" a member asked. "Surely–"

"What the Dark Lord can do to the strongest of minds is remarkable," Severus said. "Potter has no training of the mind – he will be very easy for the Dark Lord to break."

"You don't know him," Lupin spoke, quiet as always. "You're not sure of that."

"Oh, I am not only sure – I know."

* * *

Harry blinked repeatedly, wiping the grit out of his eyes. He did not have that brief 'Where am I? What's going on?' thing. When crying yourself to sleep, that apparently got avoided.

The room had taken on a terrible fishy smell. Rolling over, he could see the bowl of tuna was now a dark brown colour, and the milk had a suspicious thick layer over the top.

_'Kitten will suffer the consequences.' _Consequences. Consequences that Voldemort would invoke. Voldemort's consequences were no doubt severe.

_So what? He's going to kill you, anyway. Might as well be on your terms._

He looked over at the curdling milk and shuddered. He was thirsty, so thirsty, but was not about to drink that stuff. That disgusting stuff. And even were he to drink it, he would use his hands, not drink it like a 'pet'.

_Don't even consider it, Potter._

Slowly, he sat up from his position on the stone hearth. The fire was still lit, but Harry felt cold, no doubt stemming from his fear and nakedness. Moreover, he was very stiff.

_Of course you're stiff. You haven't really moved in a while. Last time you were awake, you moved from the centre of the room to the hearth. Before that you were bound or paralysed. You need to move._

He leaned against the fireplace as he stood. His legs shook as he put his weight on them, but he put that out of his mind.

The two closed doors in the room would lead to escape. All he had to do was–

One of the doors opened, and Voldemort walked in.

"Pet!" he snapped.

Weakly, Harry slid back down to the floor, staring up at Voldemort. He hadn't wanted Harry to stand on his feet, which Harry had been able to ignore as ridiculous while alone, but when Voldemort came into the room, that confidence left him.

Voldemort came over to Harry, towering over him. "Pet, what did I say about standing?"

Harry's throat was still killing him from lack of water. "You said not to do it, but since when do I–" It felt like his throat twisted, and the only way to stop it was to cough.

Voldemort turned and strode over to his armchair. "Come, Pet."

Harry eyed the long spindly fingers holding Voldemort's wand. A wand that had killed countless wizards. A wand that would be used to torture Harry, probably sooner than later.

He shifted, suddenly more aware of his nakedness under Voldemort's gaze.

Voldemort chuckled. "There is no need to be self-conscious. Come, Pet." His voice hardened. "Come."

Why? Why would Harry come close to Voldemort? That was like asking a rusty nail to poke you in the eyeball. With no defences, completely vulnerable... why would he do such a thing? Why did Voldemort want him to come close?

"Kitten, your master is losing his patience. Come, or the results will not be pleasant."

What was the harm in coming over to Voldemort? At worst, Voldemort would kill him. At best, he wouldn't. If Harry didn't come close, Voldemort would torture him... and then Harry would be too weak to escape later.

He took a deep breath and tentatively crawled forward to Voldemort. Moving away from the fire made him even colder. The crawling made his bits move uncomfortably.

He wouldn't have that problem long, he reckoned. Much more time around Voldemort, and his balls would probably permanently crawl back up inside him.

Finally, he knelt, on his knees, in front of Voldemort. He tried not to shake with anger. He struggled to remain in control of himself – if he pissed Voldemort off, Voldemort would be even crueler. Harry needed to stay alive, and strong.

"Who am I, Kitten?" Voldemort peered down at him with is creepy eyes.

Harry bit his tongue. _I'm not a pet. I'm not a kitty. I'm a boy. And you, to answer your question, are a psycho-control-freak-maniac._

But Harry was smart, so he didn't say that. That'd just piss Voldemort off.

"You're Voldemort." Harry glared at the man.

He gasped and jumped back in surprise, falling back on his bum, as Voldemort quickly executed a stinging hex.

"Ow!" Harry rubbed his shoulder, where the hex had hit. "What'd you do that for? It's your name – you made it up. If you don't like it, don't blame me!"

"Kitten, Master is waiting."

Voldemort was going to punish Harry. For not eating, for standing. He was going to punish him worse than a stinging hex, because he had already done that.

Harry bit his lip and took a deep breath. He was fifteen, practically an adult. He was not a baby, or a fraidy cat. Voldemort couldn't hurt him, not really hurt him inside where it was supposed to count the most. And he needed to calm down – if he didn't stop being so scared, he might never escape.

Therefore, would it be stupid or wise to call Voldemort 'Master'? Dumb, or smart? Dumb, because it would only encourage Voldemort in whatever he was doing, and it would seem like he was surrendering. But smart, if it spared him the Cruciatus – if he was tortured too much, he would be weaker than he already was, and wouldn't be able to escape quickly. It would be smart too, because it would trick Voldemort into thinking Harry was a 'kitten' (how could Voldemort think Harry looked anything like a kitty? He was a boy – B-O-Y), so that he would be less careful... leaving Harry a good chance of escaping.

"You–" He coughed, fighting his dry throat. "You want to be called–" Cough, cough, "'Master'." God, it made him sick to say.

"That is true, and good enough for now," Voldemort said. "Kitten will obey me at all times, regardless of the order."

Over Harry's dead body. _And it could be._

"Move closer to me," Voldemort said.

_Move closer._ Move closer to _Voldemort_. That was ridiculous. Why would Harry do such a thing?

(_Because 'Master' said to, _Harry inwardly scoffed.

"Obey me." The warning undertones in Voldemort's voice scared Harry enough to obey. It wasn't like Voldemort needed to be close to him to kill him, or manipulate him. Harry was in charge of his own actions, of what orders he obeyed.

He moved, on his knees, close enough to Voldemort so that his chest touched Voldemort's knees. His back to the fire, a chill ran through him, making goosebumps. His nipples involuntarily hardened, and he prayed Voldemort didn't notice.

Voldemort didn't give any indication that he had. He leaned down, arms stretched, making to pick up Harry.

Harry yelped, and fell over himself to back up. He did not want to be touched by the evil wizard. Not at all. Being picked up from under the armpits wasn't as bad as, say, being touched _there_ in the _dark_ by an unknown _person_ or _thing_ or _spell_. But it was still being touched. By Voldemort.

"Postponing punishment will not take it away, or lessen its severity. Who am I?"

_Voldemort. Tom Riddle. An evil-crazy-psycho-wannabe-dictator, kind of like Hitler._

_Master_. That was what Voldemort wanted to be called, Harry knew that. Voldemort wanted, for whatever twisted reason, for Harry to call him 'Master'. But Harry refused. He was not a house-elf, or a kitten. He was a boy, and would call Voldemort 'Voldemort' or 'Tom'. Hell, even 'Mr. Riddle'.

But 'Master'. That wasn't only unnatural, it was stupid.

Why was Harry here? He wasn't supposed to be here. Wherever _here_ was. If he was confronted by Voldemort, he was supposed to be fighting, victorious or dead. He wasn't supposed to be kidnapped.

He wanted to know why. He wanted to figure out why he was there, and what he had to do to escape. He wanted to know why he was being let live (not that he was objecting), he wanted to know where his wand and clothes were. He wanted water. He wanted answers.

He wanted to ask Voldemort 'why'. He wanted to protest. Run screaming.

But he couldn't.

"Kitten," Voldemort's voice softened. "Come to Master. There is no need to shake so. I am not unreasonable, and your punishments shall not be, either."

Harry wrapped his arms tightly around himself, trying to stop the involuntary shivering Voldemort had pointed out. He was cold, that's why he was shaking. And angry at the indignity he was suffering. He wasn't scared.

Well, a little. But mostly angry.

"Come to Master now, and the punishment will be less harsh – I promise."

_Yeah, right. Because we all know you're _so _honest._

"I've no reason to be dishonest. It will find that its master is very honest," Voldemort said.

_He can't read your mind, he can't read your mind, _Harry repeated silently, almost like a mantra.

A stinging hex hit his shoulder, but this time, he was prepared for it. And it was just a stinging hex – he wouldn't cry or anything.

_Just go over to him. Let him _Crucio _you until your guts explode. If you piss him off more, he'll kill you. And he can't kill you – you need to stay alive until Dumbledore saves you._

Harry's stomach churned as he went back over to Voldemort. He blinked furiously, successfully not crying. He had had the Cruciatus before – he wasn't afraid of pain. He didn't even know why he was scared – he wasn't scared of Voldemort, or pain, and wasn't going to die or anything.

Voldemort picked him up, murmuring 'good pet' nonsense. He quickly laid Harry across his lap, and swiftly began to slap Harry's bare buttocks with his veiny hand.

_One. Two. Three. Four._

Harry yelped with two of them, in surprise. He had never received a spanking in his life without clothes on. He had never expected it to hurt like Voldemort doing it did. He had never expected Voldemort to spank him.

His face burned as his laid across Voldemort's lap, staring at the expensive carpet. He was naked, and Voldemort was spanking him. The image was too terrible to process, despite the fact that it was currently happening.

After four firm slaps, Voldemort righted Harry, manoeuvring him easily as if Harry were a rag doll. He made him sit like a little kid on Father Christmas' lap. And even thought there was no one there to see, it made Harry feel ashamed.

And mad. He made sure Voldemort knew that by his eyes. He would not try to talk and fail, humiliating himself further.

"That was for not eating its food, which its master ordered. And for standing, which I also disapprove of." Voldemort's red eyes met Harry's, who refused to look away – it'd feel like defeat.

"Its hesitation is disgraceful, a nuisance, but quite understandable," the psycho-maniac continued. "Every pet is afraid when it first gets a new master. However, that does not mean Kitten may get away with anything.

Up close, Voldemort's tight pasty skin didn't look much like skin at all to Harry. It was all scaly. If Harry looked away from Voldemort's eyes to his hands, one balancing him on his waist and the other on his knee, he'd have found scaly hands.

"I know Kitten acts out also because it is testing its boundaries and so," Voldemort's hands moved quickly and deftly, producing the object he secured around Harry's neck almost before Harry could realise what was going on. "I thought I would give Kitten something to remind itself of who its master is, and who it is to please."

The object collared around Harry's neck was heavy and tight. Suffocating. Hot. Choking.

"You're not choking, Kitten." Voldemort pretended that he could read Harry's mind again. "Stop hyper-ventilating – you are fine. Now," Voldemort sat Harry down on the floor, "Kitten will drink its water."

A bowl of water appeared in front of Harry, but he couldn't drink it – he wasn't a kitten.

He reached up and tugged at the thing chafing his neck. It was firm, and did not bend easily. It was smooth on the outer side, and attached was a smooth metal plate.

'TEP', the cold plate read in Harry's reflection in the water. TEP... The-something-Potter. Or, knowing the way Voldemort acted around him, the-something-_Pet_.

"Do not stress over your collar," Voldemort said in a voice that could be mistaken for as comforting. "You have been here many months – it is time to be collared."

The words 'kitten' and 'collar' were both lost on Harry. The word that stuck out to him was 'months'.

He had not been here – wherever here was – for months! That was ridiculous! Harry didn't have a calendar, window, Tempus, or noticeable temperature change to judge the passing of time, but there was no way it had been months. He had spent long hours since being captured b the Death Eaters, he knew. He knew it felt like months, but it hadn't actually been. It had been a few hours, minimum, maybe two days maximum.

He hadn't eaten or drank, but he was still alive. He hadn't had the need to use the loo, but maybe he wouldn't need to as long as he didn't eat or drink. He wasn't sure.

He was sure it hadn't been months, though. Only hours. Days.

"Drink, Kitten. Master is watching."

Harry noted with satisfaction how Voldemort called himself 'master' half of the time. He apparently didn't know that it was dumb to refer to yourself by your name, or what you considered your name to be. He always called Harry 'it' – he didn't use words like 'you' and 'he' and 'I' often... not even when talking about himself.

He stared back down at his reflection in the water. He looked really pale, all colour gone from his cheeks. That mark from his first pimple was gone, the one Hermione had said would take a while to go away naturally. His eyes... his glasses were gone, and yet he could see properly. Why? How?

_Take one for the team, Harry. You can't escape if you don't survive. Drink the water like Mr. and Mrs. Grunnings' kitty. Drink it, and find a way to escape. It won't mean you're not still a boy, or you're on Voldemort's team. You're doing what you can to defeat him. You aren't hurting anyone by drinking this. Except for maybe your pride. But just this once... no one is going to know._

As he began to drink the water, he heard Voldemort murmur 'good Kitten'. Words so sweet, so wrong, Harry nearly vomited what he just drank.

But he held it in. Because he was doing it to help save himself. And to be honest, he would have much rather escaped with no dignity rather than die with his dignity intact.

**Coming up next in **_**Disorder**_**...  
Chapter V: **_**Damned**_


	5. Damned

**Disclaimer**: I do not own "Harry Potter" or the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

**Chapter V: Damned**

* * *

"Harry, you are doing right, listening to Voldemort," Dumbledore said as he passed a handful of sherbet lemons to Harry. "It is only for the time being, and will save many lives in the long run."

Harry and Dumbledore were sitting in the Headmaster's office at Hogwarts. It didn't look quite how Harry remembered it, but that was probably because he was just dreaming – in dreams, some things just weren't quite accurate.

"The Greater Good. Sometimes, we have to sacrifice everything." Dumbledore's eyes did not twinkle. "What does not kill you makes you stronger – that is an excellent quote by the German Muggle philosopher, Nietzche. Have you ever read his work? We have most of it in our library here at Hogwarts."

Harry tried to respond, to tell Dumbledore that he didn't know philosophers wrote books, just that they thought a lot, and sometimes said deep things that were repeated for years, but his dream-self just wouldn't cooperate.

"I have had to sacrifice so much in my time. Love, pride, dignity, even the clothes off my back," Dumbledore continued. "Gellert and I could have had so much, but I gave it up to save lives. Your life. Do you understand?"

No, Harry didn't understand. He didn't know who Gellert was. Why did Dumbledore have to give them up? He wanted to ask what incident had surrounded Dumbledore losing his clothes. He wanted to ask, but his dream-self just nodded, as if he understood perfectly.

"Dreams are important, Harry." Dumbledore popped a sherbet lemon. "Never underestimate their importance. Go now – join your friends outside. I heard Gryffindor is learning a lovely Muggle game called grasshopper."

Cricket, Harry wanted to correct, but his dream-self didn't – he simply thanked Dumbledore, rose, and went outside.

The cricket game was a disaster. No one understood about the goals or balls, and Dean kept using a football rather than the proper cricket ball. It was going all wrong – wizards could not play Muggle games, just as Muggles couldn't play wizarding games.

That's not true, Harry wanted to argue with his dream-self. Dean plays football, and he does it well. I'm not very good at it, but I can play it, and I'm a wizard.

Hermione came up behind him, her teeth sticking out again like they had until the middle of fourth year. "It's okay, Harry," she said, scratching his back. "Dreams are really important, but some bits are pointless. As long as you catch the bits that aren't, it's fine."

Harry liked having his back scratched. He had never had it scratched before by anyone because not many people loved him. It felt good though, and it was a shame this was a dream, because then the scratching would have to end.

He groggily opened one eye. The carpet he was lying on was brown. He liked the brown carpet – it was so comfy; it didn't give him carpet burn or put temporary red prints on his skin or anything. It didn't surprise him that he was lying on the floor, instead of a bed. When you wanted to be comfy in a room that had a comfy carpet, that was what you did.

Hermione was still scratching his back. Up and down and up and down, over and over again. She didn't stay in one spot too long, but lingered just long enough. It felt perfect – he wondered if Hermione had ever taken a class on back scratching, or had read a book on it – knowing Hermione, she had done both.

She lingered on his lowered back, right above his buttocks, scratching lighter than before. It tickled, and a giggle escaped Harry. He wanted to arch his back to get away from the ticklish feeling, but found that he couldn't. Maybe someone had put a paralysing spell on him – Harry could remember thinking about one before, so that had to be it.

Really, he was perfectly ready to be content with it, to accept the explanation, and to doze on, but a voice interrupted his delirium.

A voice that was amused, even kind... but somehow sounded off.

"Enjoying it, Kitten?" Voldemort crooned. "I thought my pet might enjoy some attention after being alone and so well behaved for such a length of time away from its master."

Harry's eyes shot open, his stomach convulsing, heart dropping into it. Though he could only see vast amounts of carpet and the bottom of a wall from his immobilised condition, he knew exactly where he was, as the recollections came quickly.

He was in Voldemort's quarters – supposedly. He didn't know where Voldemort's quartets were located, and had never seen Voldemort actually sleep here, but that was what Voldemort called the room, and what Harry had begun to think of it as.

He could remember being kidnapped, not eating tuna, getting spanked – spanked – and drinking water. He could recall a collar being put on him with the acronym TEP on it. He could remember sulking, staring at the fire, ignoring Voldemort who had, surprisingly, not spoken to him. He could remember his stomach growling, and feeling so hungry he thought he might puke.

He could remember focussing on both doors in Voldemort's quarters, willing them to open, imagining where they might lead and how he could escape, lying down on the carpet, feeling ashamed and stupid for complying with Voldemort's orders. Feeling like a dirty boy for being touched in the dark, for letting someone make him naked, for Voldemort spanking his bare buttocks – something he mightn't have thought was dirty had he not seen the lady spanking the bloke inDudley's magazine.

And he had fallen asleep, and woken up immobilised, enjoying Voldemort's touch.

He was an idiot. Why would Hermione scratch his back, in a dream or in real life? She held his hand like a friend lots of times, but that was different. She certainly wouldn't scratch his back bare, even if she would scratch his back. Which she wouldn't.

_Idiot_.

"Don't touch me!" Harry tried to wriggle away from Voldemort, but of course couldn't move.

Voldemort ignored him, but thankfully stopped scratching. "Would Kitten like something to eat? Master has something very special planned for it."

"No!" Harry spat. His spit, however, only landed on the carpet, where he would have to lay his head once he tired of supporting his neck, the only part he could move. Smooth, Harry.

Voldemort released Harry from the spell. Harry could feel his muscles loosen.

He scurried away, back to the wall, so he could see Voldemort and not be taken by surprise from behind.

Voldemort was frowning. "I had hoped Pet would be much more cooperative after the quality time I spent with it. Is Pet not grateful to be wearing a collar?"

PET. That's what TEP spelled, backwards. _In mirrors – and water – things are backwards. Idiot._

"Take it off," Harry hissed.

Voldemort chuckled – he _chuckled_."Your thoughts are so amusing."

Voldemort could not read his mind. It was just like the months/days thing Voldemort had tried to pull over him – Harry knew better.

"I'm not your god-damned pet. I'm a boy. Take off your stupid collar, and put it on one of your fucking Death Eaters." Foul words Harry knew, but had never said, came flying from his mouth. "And stop calling me 'Pet' and 'Kitten' – it's stupid. It makes you look like an idiot. Take off the collar!"

Harry now knew the meaning of seeing red. He was so angry, he wanted to pick up Voldemort's armchair or bedside table and throw it at him. The only things stopping him were physical weakness from not eating, and the fact that he was a boy – boys couldn't lift armchairs or beds over their heads.

He wasn't scared of Voldemort. Fear wasn't stopping him, because he wasn't scared. Not one bit.

Voldemort's eyes became noticeably more red. "Such language will not be tolerated."

Harry had a feeling he meant it, and kept his mouth shut. He had to remember what dream-Dumbledore had said. He had to get by, for the sake of others. Even if he just had to pretend.

"Come here, Kitten." Voldemort settled into his armchair, facing the fire. "Come eat with me. I have a grand surprise for my kitten."

A painful blow? Death? Touching? Punishment for ordering you around? There was no way Harry would sit in front of the fire with Voldemort when there was a 'grand surprise' involved – what if Voldemort pushed Harry in? What if he firecalled the Weasleys and showed them Harry, kneeling in front of him, naked? They would lose hope, and they mustn't do that.

Plus, Harry knew it was stupid, but he would be really embarrassed for them to see all the changes happening with his body.

"The surprise involves food, Kitten." Voldemort interrupted his thoughts. "Master will not show off his kitten until Kitten is ready."

Harry didn't budge. He didn't trust Voldemort. He had every reason to think everything the man said was a lie. And even if the surprise was food, how was that a good thing? In Harry's experience, surprises were rarely good things. Sirius had spoken of a 'terribly wonderful' surprise for him in letters, and Harry had gotten kidnapped – he didn't think that had anything to do with Sirius' surprise, but it just went to show.

"Dally!" Voldemort called.

A house-elf appeared in the room. The house-elf looked just like Dobby, only smaller. "Yes, Master?"

"Bring me my kitten's meal, "Voldemort ordered. "Include a spoon."

"Yes, Master." The house-elf disappeared, in moments reappearing with a carbon copy of the fresh shredded tuna Harry had refused to eat the day before.

"Come," Voldemort urged Harry once Dally left. "Let's get some food into its belly. Perhaps Kitten would feel better if not hungry."

Food made no difference to Harry's mood. He hated Voldemort, Death Eaters, the dumb room, and dumb tuna fish, and he would be in a sour mood until he got away from it all.

_You have to eat sometime, and you have to be strong if you're going to run away_, Harry reasoned. _Dumbledore gave up a lot for the Greater Good – be like Dumbledore, and give up a little bit of your pride._

_Dumbledore didn't really say that, though. It was just a dream._

_Yeah, but dreams are really important, and it sounded authentic. _Maybe Dumbledore was telepathically telling him what to do.

And Dumbledore almost always knew exactly what to do.

Harry almost stood to go over to Voldemort, but remembered just in time Voldemort's rule, and that spanking. It wasn't an experience he was keen to re-live just yet – he could stand when Voldemort wasn't in the room, and he would never know. But when he _was_ in the room – just for now – Harry would be on his hands and knees, like a dog.

_Kitty, you mean._

It was only thoughts of saving lives, of doing what he had to do, that allowed Harry to crawl to Voldemort. It was only the smell of food that kept him from physically balking when Voldemort reached down and picked him up.

"I don't want to sit here!" Harry whinged before he could shut up. He didn't want to be picked up by Voldemort – it was awkward and uncomfortable.

"Say 'Kitten does not want to sit here'," Voldemort corrected, settling Harry on his lap. "And it is not an option for Kitten."

Voldemort scooped a very small amount of tuna onto the spoon. "Eat, Kitten," he commanded.

Harry hesitated. He was being fed from a spoon. A spoon he did not appear to be allowed to touch. He was supposed to be spoon-fed like a baby from the evilest wizard alive.

But his stomach was so rumbly! He leaned over and took a bite of the tuna.

"Good, Pet." Voldemort patted the top of Harry's head as Harry took another bite. "Very good."

* * *

Severus stared at himself in the mirror. Not at himself, necessarily, but into himself. Into his dark-coloured eyes – eyes that habitually revealed little. The trick, however, was seeing that the eyes seemed to reveal true emotion, when they in fact did not reveal true emotion at all.

It was all a façade Severus desperately needed to create.

"It's all right, dear," the mirror said. "Your face isn't much, but I have seen the reflections of many men, and the rest of you is something to behold."

Severus snarled, turning away from the enchanted object. He levitated the brown ottoman, and after ensuring his Occlumency shields were not only in pace but concealed, he manoeuvred the ottoman into the hall.

The Dark Lord's headquarters were miserable. Severus would have much preferred a drafty mansion, or a mouldy cellar, but no. The Dark Lord had set up his quarters – as well as individual quarters for the eleven with the Dark Mark – in a well-lit building.

The white marble floors were slippery, and as miserably bright as the white walls. It was painfully ironic for a Dark Lord.

The Order of thePhoenixnow had a plan to distract the Death Eaters in Muggle London, whilst Severus would go in to save Potter. It was a pointless venture, as it was too obvious, considering the fact that the Dark Lord would never leave his headquarters for the Order. No, not when he had everything he needed chained in his quarters.

The Dark Lord had created Horcruxes. Severus had no clue how many, or what they were, save the diary Potter had destroyed in early 1993.

He did know, however, that Potter was a Horcrux; a piece of information Dumbledore had recently divulged to him in private. A Horcrux was something that could, essentially, prevent one from dying.

It was a case of 'keep your enemies closer'. The Dark Lord had realised that he had accidentally made Potter a Horcrux, and had taken measures to ensure his survival. And with 'the boy who lived' under his complete control, the Dark Lord had little to worry about – he could dictate to the Earth for eternity. With Potter out of the way, not killing him, he would live forever.

Severus had not yet seen 'Pet' to see how he was holding up. He had heard boasts by the Dark Lord of how well-behaved his 'pet' was, but Severus doubted they were not without exaggeration.

Potter was very bull-headed, but without the ability to protect his mind, he could easily become the simple... animal the Dark Lord wished him to be. It had not been quite a week, however, so Severus was sure the impudence and orneriness he hated about the boy were still present.

He hoped so.

Severus worried that Dumbledore was too confident in Potter. Too confident that the damage could be healed – that Potter would be all right.

But it was simply not possible for Severus to judge at this time.

Severus rapped on the Dark Lord's door, and bowed his head, awaiting the wizard's welcome.

"Severus." The Dark Lord opened the door. "Just move it next to the armchair – quiet now. Pet is sleeping."

Severus levitated the ottoman next to the chair, noting with interest the small boy curled up next to the fire. Potter had always been disgustingly small for his age – now with the monthly draining of magic - essentially energy - it was doubtful he would grow much at all in the future.

"Perfect." The Dark Lord nodded with approval.

"I assume, my Lord, that we are still to congregate this evening?"

"Yes, it shall be an interesting affair," the Dark Lord said. "Be sure to tell Wormtail to collect the house-elves."

_I am not a messenger._ "Yes, my Lord." Severus raised his head, so that the Dark Lord could see into his open thoughts, if he wished.

The Dark Lord did not poke into his mind much at all. "Pet will also be attending – tell Rudolphus to come see me a quarter until, Severus."

"Yes, my Lord." Pet? Potter would be attending? A feeling of panic filled Severus – Potter was not capable of handling what went on at meetings like that night's was intended to be. If the Dark Lord did not mentally scar him, the events of tonight would.

"I shall go see Rudolphus and Wormtail now, if I am permitted." Severus knelt and kissed the hem of the Dark Lord's robes. "Farewell, my Lord."

"Farewell, Severus."

**Coming up next in _Disorder_...  
Chapter VI: _Delicate_**


	6. Delicate

**Disclaimer**: I do not own "Harry Potter" or the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

**Chapter VI: Delicate**

* * *

By Harry's reckoning, he had been in Voldemort's clutches a week, but not yet a fortnight. It was hard to judge – he slept all the time, it felt like.

He had concluded that Voldemort was feeding him – or secretly spelling into him – a potion to make him fall asleep. He always felt tired, weak, but it wasn't from lack of food or water – he ate fairly often. Even when he tried resisting, he would give in – he got so hungry. And there was the dream – he had had two others like it – Dumbledore telling him to act like he was obeying, just to trick Voldemort, and that he would come to the rescue within a month.

A month was a long time, but Dumbledore was probably trying to come up with a foolproof plan.

He sat on the floor, arms hugging his knees to his chest. He stared into the fire, thinking about escape, like he normally did.

He had gotten stupid at one point, and decided to try to open the doors, consequences be damned. Naked, powerless, weak, and against Dumbledore's advice, he was the very definition of 'vulnerable', but he had to try.

In his reasoning, the Death Eaters wouldn't hurt him. They _couldn't_ hurt him. Voldemort wouldn't let them. Voldemort wanted Harry alive, for now, but why? He couldn't for the life of him figure it out.

He had tried opening both doors, but they were locked, and as much as Harry kicked, shoved, and otherwise tried to break them down, he couldn't. He was too skinny.

Voldemort had somehow found out, and wasn't happy. He had spanked Harry again, this time harder, and had used magic to bind Harry to the bedpost, on the floor, for hours afterwards.

It wasn't fair. They were dumb rules. Harry hadn't gotten out, anyhow, so what was the harm? Nothing. Nothing was the harm, that was what.

He spent his time (days and nights were irrelevant) staring at the fire, imagining how worried Ron and Hermione were, wondering what Dumbledore was planning, if the Dursleys had noticed he was missing, and if they had, had they thrown a party in celebration?

"Kitten, what did I say about that position?" Voldemort Apparated into the room, and sent a stinging hex to Harry's bottom.

Harry bit his lower lip, and shifted so that he was on his knees. Voldemort didn't allow him to sit like a boy. He had to kneel. He wasn't allowed to sleep on his back – he had to sleep curled up. It was dumb, but Harry relented because Dumbledore had said to 'give up the small things for the big ones'.

"You told me not to sit like that," Harry mumbled.

"How is a kitten supposed to phrase that?" Voldemort reproached. He crossed his arms. "I know it knows this."

How did Voldemort know? Harry had never phrased anything the way Voldemort had insisted. He found it too dumb for his tastes.

"Kittens say 'meow'," Harry said.

Harry's head was full of a burning pain. He felt like his eyes were going to pop out, like he was going to throw up.

And then it was gone.

"Kitten is not to disrespect ." Voldemort continued standing there. "Again."

_Shit. He's going to make you this time._ "Do I have to?" Harry whinged – he'd rather beg than give in. "Please don't make me."

"Kitten, I've no time for this. Does it wish to be in the dark again?"

Harry's throat swelled and he swallowed, trying to stop the anxiety. Voldemort had been threatening him a lot with the dark lately – he either falsely assumed Harry was afraid of the dark, or he knew about what had happened in the dark after his capture. Maybe he had been the one touching him – the thought was sick.

Regardless, Voldemort knew Harry hated the dark, because of what had happened the other day, and held it against him.

Harry couldn't go back in the dark.

Tears pricked Harry's eyes. He could eat like a kitty, but this was too much. It scared him.

"Master told Kitten not to sit in that position," Harry croaked, repeating the phrase necessary.

Voldemort nodded, came over, and stroked Harry's head. "Well done. Has Kitten seen the ottoman?"

Yes, Harry had seen the ottoman, but hadn't gone near it, fearing a trap. "Yes."

Voldemort frowned. "Yes...?"

Harry swallowed hard. "Yes, Master."

"Kitten may sit or sleep on it, but first it must ask me," Voldemort explained. "Kitten must ask before using any furniture."

Harry didn't want to sit on Voldemort's dumb furniture. He liked the floor. And he sure as hell wasn't going to ask to do something boys did freely – he was a boy.

He didn't answer Voldemort. If he answered him, he'd have to say 'Yes, Master', and Voldemort wasn't his master. He didn't have a master – no one in Britain did, because it was illegal. He had learned that when he was a kid.

Voldemort didn't make him answer. He waved his hand, and something appeared in the room – something that made Harry back up in fear, protest, and…

It was a cage. It wasn't very big, just big enough for a Harry-sized boy to fit in. The bottom was covered with a thick cushion. It looked comfortable – for a kitty, dog, or even a duck, pig, or a very small pony. But not for a boy – boys didn't go in cages. Sometimes they were kept behind locked doors, with iron bars over the windows, or made to sleep in cramped cupboards, but they didn't go in cages. That wasn't only wrong, it was barbaric.

"I promise a treat for Kitten if it gets into the cage."

Harry glared. The cage was asking too much – he wasn't an animal. It was okay to pretend to be one sometimes – he had played that he was a giant flying bird when he was a kid – but cages were where the line was drawn.

"Is Kitten not tired of being in this room?" Voldemort asked. "That was the impression it gave me this morning."

Ah, so that had been in the morning, that Harry had tried to escape. Good to know.

"Boys don't go into cages," Harry said, careful not to use words that would require 'I' or 'you', or Voldemort would insist on words like 'kitten', 'it', and 'master'. "Cages aren't for boys."

"Quite right," Voldemort answered. "I make it a point to never lock male children in cages – typically, I have them killed."

A shiver ran up Harry's spine. He knew Voldemort was a murderer – he was the reason Harry hadn't a mum or dad – but Harry sometimes forgot that the man he spent hours at a time with was also in the habit of regularly trying to kill kids. For some reason, that seemed worse than trying to kill a grown-up.

"Kitten is lucky it's not a boy." Voldemort bent down, getting close to Harry's face. He hissed like a snake when he said words with an 's' in them. "Kitten is very lucky it is a kitten. There are some boys I know of, however, that would make excellent footstools. Ones with red hair would match the décor in this room quite well, desn't it think?"

Voldemort sounded absolutely elated at the idea, but Harry only felt sick. He didn't think people could be transfigured into inanimate objects too well – for whatever terrible reasons, he had a mental image of Fred Weasley's decomposing body being used to elevate Voldemort's feet.

_This is why you have to listen, Harry! This is what Dumbledore means – if you cooperate, you will save lives!_

Harry looked up at Voldemort and spoke carefully. "If Kitten gets into its cage, will Master promise it he will not do any harm to any red-headed boys? Or Hermione and Ginny?"

"I will," Voldemort said.

Harry eyed Voldemort carefully. The man was not a promise keeper, because evil people had no reason to be. But Harry had to try.

"Cross Master's heart, hope to die?" Harry paused. "Stick a needle in eye?"

Voldemort inclined his head slightly, so Harry carefully crawled into the cage.

Voldemort locked the cage door with a spell, and then said, very quietly, "I would, but I haven't a heart, and with my kitten, shall never die."

* * *

_Never die._ How could someone not die? Everyone did. Even Dumbledore, who had to be at least one hundred and fifty, would die. Eventually. Voldemort was pretty old. He had to be. He had to die at some point.

Maybe it was a figure of speech. Maybe Voldemort didn't mean it literally. Maybe he meant that he was so famous, now that he had kidnapped Harry Potter, so his name would never die.

_But that makes no sense. You're only famous because of him. He will never be forgotten, whether he dies now or later._

Maybe that was what he meant. Maybe now that he had Harry, he thought nothing was stopping him from ruling the world – from renaming the UK 'Voldemort's Kingdom', Kenya 'Volde', the States 'The States of Voldemort', and Bora Bora 'Volde Volde'.

But even that made no sense. Harry wasn't the key to Voldemort ruling the world. He just wanted to get him out of the way before he did it.

Voldemort stepped into a connecting room, leaving Harry alone in the cage. He could hear water running, leaving him to deduce that it was a bathroom.

_Now you've done it. You stood up too much, and he caught you. Now you've got to stay in a cage – how are you going to escape now?_

He raised his rear up, hoping to stretch his back some. It wasn't very comfortable to crouch all the time, and it wasn't like anyone would come into Voldemort's quarters – no one ever did.

"Kitten may want to move into a more stable position." Voldemort came out of the bathroom, looking just as he had before. "I will be conjuring my pet to join me in minutes, and do not want it hurt in the process."

If Harry was sarcastic, Voldemort might turn him mute. But if Harry didn't talk, he might as well be mute.

"Can't conjure boys." Harry carefully avoided pronouns altogether. "Only plants, animals, minerals, and non-living things." Flitwick was anal about it.

Voldemort ignored him. "Because I have great faith that my kitten will obey and respect its master in public, I will reward it with a spell to block out terrible sights know it would rather not see. Being as delicate as it is, I am sure it will agree."

Assuming Harry was the 'it', he unfortunately did agree with Voldemort. He didn't want to see terrible things – he only liked to see Quidditch games, and football games, and Cho Chang (though that last he would never admit). But he'd never tell Voldemort he was right, not ever.

"I'm not delicate!" Harry argued, aware that a boy in a cage was hardly intimidating.

"'_It_'." Voldemort was quiet. "Has Kitten ever seen an Indian Pipe?"

"What kind of pipe? The kind under the sink or the kind you smoke?"

"It is a plant that melts if exposed to direct sunlight. The events Kitten is about to witness are akin to sunlight. I do not want my pet melting."

That was stupid. Boys didn't melt. Harry had seen _the Wizard of Oz_, and had been wet lots of times – wizards and witches didn't melt, either.

Voldemort knelt, his red eyes boring into Harry's. "It is delicate. A delicate flower."

Harry was not. He was a boy. Boys were rough, tough, dirty, and annoying. Flowers weren't those things – they were dainty, like Cho.

"Really? I thought you said I was a kitten," Harry challenged.

Voldemort chuckled, "And so it is catching on."

Voldemort left Harry alone, locked in the cage, praying he could escape in the event of a fire.

He refused to think of it as 'his' cage. It wasn't his. He didn't want it. It was dumb. It was uncomfortable to kneel in, or be on his hands and knees in, for long. He couldn't sit like a boy, because stuff like that put him in the cage in the first place. And he didn't dare lie down – he didn't like the visual limitations. 'Constant vigilance'.

_Crack_! He felt like he was being sucked through a small hole. His insides squeezed together, and he felt his head begin to hurt. He wanted to sick up, but was not only out of breath, he had little inside his stomach, so he was left with dry heaving.

As soon as the spinning and squeezing came, it disappeared. He was still in his cage, still feeling ill, but he was okay.

He opened his eyes, eyes he hadn't realised he was holding shut. He must have shut them while spinning.

He didn't see much by opening his eyes, however. He was still in the cage; he could feel the (admittedly comfortable) cushion and the wrought-iron bars. He could see, due to a faint glow, figures standing in a large semi-circle.

_It's dark, but not the same dark. You can still see. Not only that, but no one is touching you. You can feel no one touching you. You're safe. You're not being a dirty boy._

"But my Lord," a male voice broke the silence, "its glasses are missing!"

_Its_. Another person was calling him 'it'. It was infuriating.

"Yes, Yaxley," Voldemort's voice was disturbingly close, causing Harry to startle.

He could make out Voldemort's shape, sitting in a tall chair to his direct left. Voldemort had brought him to a meeting; a Death Eater meeting, of sorts.

He didn't know whether to be angry, scared, or embarrassed – could he be all three? He didn't know why he was angry – was it because he was being subjected to such humiliation?

He backed himself up against the cage, so that the cold bars pressed against his spine. Now that his eyes were adjusting to the dark, he could make out several figures he recognized from the graveyard, weeks prior. That man, and that man. The lady with the wild hair. Lucius Malfoy was staring right at Harry, with a smirk. Peter Pettigrew was nowhere in sight.

There were some there, however, that Harry did not remember seeing at the graveyard. He had been pretty distracted that night, but was reasonably sure he'd have noticed if Snape was there.

His insides ran cold as he spotted Snape in the room, eyes intent not on Harry, but on Voldemort. Harry knew, of course, that Dumbledore trusted Snape, and that Snape had the Dark Mark. But how did that explain Snape's presence right there in Voldemort's... meeting room? How could Dumbledore trust a man like that? Or was that why Dumbledore trusted him? Did Voldemort trust him? _Could_ Voldemort trust? Could Dumbledore trust the same guy as Voldemort? Was that possible?

"Lucius, explain," Voldemort ordered.

"Yes, my Lord." The git bowed his head. "The Dark Lord had me fix its vision using that piece of Muggle-loving filth Bellatrix brought in last week."

The lady in the room let out a wild laugh, which everyone – even Voldemort – ignored.

"In essence, we took her vision and gave it to Pet. It was not as if the scum needed it." Lucius curled his lip.

_Scum? Pet?_ But Madame Pomfrey had said Harry's eyesight could not be repaired, ever.

Did she lie? Because Harry's eyesight was fixed...

"It is a spell most Mudbloods and those who associate with them do not used – would not use, even if they knew of it," Lucius finished his speech, "because they do not see it as 'fair', or 'moral'."

"'See'," a man snorted.

"Quite right," Voldemort said. "And it would not have been moral had we taken it from one Mudblood and given it to another. However, we took it from a Mudblood and gave it to my pet, which is different." He looked down at Harry, but Harry pretended not to notice.

He was too big for accidental magic now, but too small for wandless magic. It was most unfortunate, because if he were able to do either, it'd make his escaping easier.

He kept his eyes on Snape, watching him carefully. Snape was on Dumbledore's side at best, and might come to his rescue. At worst, Snape was a Death Eater who'd show images of Harry naked in a cage to his Slytherins.

As much as Harry disliked Snape, he was an optimistic sort of bloke.

"Pet is not fully trained at the moment, and so I forbid any of you to approach him," Voldemort said.

"Yes, my Lord," they all murmured together, bowing their heads.

"Pet," Voldemort's eyes were on Harry, as well as everyone else's. "Where is Pet right now?"

Harry had never been a great public speaker. He had heard that it helped to imagine the crowd in their undergarments, but didn't think that that would work when he himself was naked.

_You have to answer like he likes, Harry, or he will not put that spell on you like he promised._

_He also made it clear today that he doesn't always keep his promises_. The image of a decomposing Fred turned into a lampshade made of freckled skin flashed before his eyes.

Harry shuddered. He couldn't let that happen to any of the Weasleys. Except for Sirius, who he didn't really know that well, and the Dursleys, who hated him, they were the only family he had.

_But the sickening way all of his followers are acting... if you reply "Kitten doesn't know, Master", you will be acting just as bad as them. Worse, because you're supposed to be on the other side!_

Harry looked at Snape, who looked at Harry expectantly, as all the other Death Eaters did. He looked the same as always – hooked nose, spindly fingers, dark eyes... dark eyes that gave no hint as to what to do.

Harry took a deep breath. Dumbledore had never aimed Harry's broomstick in the wrong direction before. Harry needed to trust him.

"Kitten doesn't know, Master," Harry replied, staring deep into Voldemort's red eyes, hoping that made it more convincing.

"And what is Pet?" Voldemort persisted.

A boy, Harry wanted to say, but couldn't. Not if he didn't want Weasley footstools that he had to ask to curl up on.

"A kitten," Harry replied, hoping the answer was as simple (and dumb) as that.

He wasn't so lucky. As Voldemort and his followers began laughing, Harry realised he had given an incorrect answer. For some reason, they thought it was funny.

"No, Pet – you misunderstand. Who does Pet belong to?"

_No one._ No one, and that wasn't a good thing. He didn't have parents to belong to, or a family. The closest t thing that came to it was Gryffindor, but he had a feeling that wasn't the answer Voldemort desired.

"You?" Harry tried.

Voldemort straightened, thin smile gone from his lips. "As I said, it needs more training. Bring in the Muggles!"

Harry watched, terrified and unable to look away, as Pettigrew and two others brought in a family. A family consisting of two very small children, a set of parents, and a set of grandparents. They were all weeping, save the oldest man, who looked very angry.

"What is this?" The old man pointed at Voldemort and shouted. "What is this? Do you think you're entitled to rip us from our homes, to rip us from each other's arms? What type of Satanic ritual _is_ this?"

Harry watched at the small girl sobbed into her mum's trouser leg. It made his guts twist.

The older woman spotted Harry in the cage, and let out a terrible cry.

"Who is that?" The old man had seen Harry, too. "He is a child! Give him some clothes, and set him free! Include adults in your madness if you must, but leave the children alone!"

Harry liked that old Muggle man.

Voldemort did not respond to the old man. He instead turned to Harry. "Is Pet ready for its spell? Master promises it will not hurt."

A whimper rose in Harry's throat, but he was not a baby, so he stopped it. "Can you please not hurt them?" Harry asked, hoarsely. "They didn't do anything wrong."

Voldemort ignored Harry. "Sightlessness will make this easier on Pet. Is Pet ready? It will be dark, but Pet will be safe."

Harry hated the dark. "Master didn't answer the question."

Voldemort waved his wand, and Harry's world went black. "Begin."

Screams rose from the Muggles, screams like Harry had never heard before. Terrible screams – the baby's only lasted a minute before quieting – had they stopped torturing it, or had it died?

Harry, unable to see the torture, could still hear it. He mashed his head down on the cushion, and clamped his ears shut. Tears rolled out of his newly-repaired eyes.

And even when the Muggles' screams finally ceased, young Harry Potter's sobs did not.

* * *

Severus walked into his small home on Spinners End. He did not bother to turn on the Muggle electrical lights – he knew his way around the small house well enough to not need them.

Typically he would reported to Dumbledore in person, or, if necessary, by firecall. And while tonight would have been ideal, as he was in a house whose Floo was not tapped by the Dark Lord, Severus could not manage it. He was too emotionally drained, as it was. To relive it would be to commit emotional suicide.

Severus had seen many Muggles tortured and killed in the past several weeks. 'Many', in fact, was an understatement. It was as if the Dark Lord wanted to make up for lost time by slaughtering as many Muggles as possible, often times whole families, nightly.

It would make Severus out to be a cruel man to say it did not bother him. And it was untrue – he was bothered, to an extent, by the inhumane torture. But it would be equally untrue to say it traumatised him, or kept him up at night, for it did neither.

He had seen much in his thirty-five years, and the slaughtering of a two-month-old Muggle child was not going to stay on his conscience.

He slipped passed the rarely used table, and reached for one of the upper cupboards. Finding exactly what he was looking for, he went back into the sitting room and settled into an armchair.

It took a simple gesture to ignite a fire in the fireplace, something he took for granted. He had been able to use wandless magic for nearly two decades now; the novelty had worn off.

He popped the cork and poured the deep red wine into his goblet. He was picky about his wine, needing the right medium between juice and vinegar. He drank wine every now and again, though he was not a drinker. There was quite a difference. He only drank when celebrating a victory, or when in a time of deep despair.

This night it was the latter.

Potter looking so scared, caged like an animal, looking at Severus for answers! Green eyes, without glasses, the mirror image of Lily's, only wild. Filled with fright, terrified, unsure of what to do.

He took another sip. He did not harbour any lost love for Potter, but when it came to Pet, it was hard not to feel a terrible compassion. Severus could only imagine what terrible things Potter

(Pet)

had encountered thus far.

Potter had behaved, quote, 'sedately' since being in the Dark Lord's care. 'Sedate' was a frightening word to apply to any fifteen-year-old child. Severus had many flaws, but one thing about him that few adults could boast of was that he really remembered being a teenager. He knew how they thought, how they acted.

He also knew how Potter acted. He had peered into Potter's mind on many occasions over the past several years, and consequently knew basicaly how said mind worked. Unfortunately, he had not looked deep enough, long enough, to understand its more intricate workings. Such knowledge could have proven itself invaluable for rescuing Potter.

Potter had kept looking at Severus during the meeting. He trusted Severus. After all they had been through together – all of the hate, all of the slander – Potter had looked to Severus for advice, for help.

The Dark Lord was under the impression that Severus was pretending to be with the Order, as a spy for him. So naturally, the Dark Lord would not think anything of Potter's thoughts. Thoughts the Dark Lord was no doubt looking at, and examining.

Were Severus able to, he would have told Potter what to do. But the Dark Lord would have been aware. It was a shame it was impossible to create a scene, a scenario, to telepathically place in Potter's brain – even if it were possible to do so, it would be unwise, as it risked discovery by the Dark Lord.

The Order of the Phoenix's efforts to save Potter were ridiculous. Their latest plan, one they would attempt in precisely a week, left much to be desired. If anything, it would get _them_ killed, not the Dark Lord or his followers.

Severus downed the contents of the goblet before refilling it. He stared at the flickering fire, and prepared for a long, sleepless night.

**Coming up next in **_**Disorder**_**...  
Chapter VII: **_**Draught**_


	7. Draught

**Disclaimer: I do not own "Harry Potter" or the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.**

**Chapter VII: Draught**

* * *

It did not take special skills to make a potion; anyone could do it. It was more complicated than making frosted biscuits, yes, but it did not take more than the bare minimum of education to learn how to make nearly any potion in existence.

It did, however, take a special appreciation for potion-making. It was not as simple as chopping up dungbeetles and smashing gillyweed to see what would happen when they were combined. No, it took special research into their properties and the way they were grown, as well as the patience to test the stirring pattern. It took time.

Severus was trying to buy as much time as possible, and that was unfortunate, because he was not a patient man by nature. He needed to create a potion for the Dark Lord – invent a potion for him – and he needed it to take as long as possible, without the Dark Lord growing too impatient. He could not risk the Dark Lord getting his hands on a successfully made draught before Potter was in safe hands – the damage it could cause would put them at the point of no return, beyond redemption.

He sniffed the potion that was brewing, noting the strong smells of iron and binnog, before stirring it three times counter-clockwise. The potion remained its bright yellow colour, a painful irony of the situation.

As the potion simmered for the precise four hundred and three seconds it took to get to the next step, Severus made notations in a notebook. If anyone were to get their hands on said book, it would seem to be full of shopping lists and bored doodles. However, the Dark Lord knew it for what it was, and that was why Severus had to be careful – if he did not act as if he were earnestly trying to create the potion successfully, the Dark Lord would know.

The Dark Lord was incapable of feeling love for anyone. Severus had been present when Dumbledore realised this long ago. Dumbledore often used Severus to bounce information off of and to come up with new theories, simply because there was no one else more reliable, less likely to run off and truly join the Dark Lord. The theory made much sense, considering the magical and familial background of the subject.

But the affection he showed for Potter was worrying, in any case. Was he showing the affection because he felt it, or because he wanted Potter to think he was loved? Did the emotions seem 'off' because the Dark Lord's sense of love was twisted, or because he, much like one with sociopathy, only knew how to go through the motions of love?

He looked up at the three small vials waiting to be poured into the potion. He looked at them with dread. The thick, sticky substance in the vials was an ungodly colour of mustard yellow. It looked like earwax, like mucous. It had the stickiness of syrup, the thickness of heavily curdled milk. It made him sick to know that it was here... and not in Potter's body.

When he botched this potion, the Dark Lord would demand Severus try again. That would require Potter provide more of the smelly substance, which would risk further damage to Potter's anatomy, his organs, his magic – but it was a risk Severus was forced to take.

It was better Potter's magic than all their lives.

* * *

Harry spent days in the cage, or perhaps it was only hours – it was impossible to tell without a wall clock.

The thing one might find curious was that he didn't _have_ to be in the cage. No, the door to the cage was unlocked, leaving him free to go out into Voldemort's quarters, but he didn't use it.

What was the point, the difference, whether he was in the cage or not? In the room, he had to kneel or curl up. He couldn't stand without a spanking, and couldn't eat or drink like a person. He couldn't leave the room at all. While in the cage, he couldn't stand because the roof of the cage stopped him, couldn't eat because there was no food. Most importantly, there was a way out of the cage if he wanted out. In Voldemort's quarters, there was no way out.

He supposed he was depressed. Depressed because every time he fell asleep, he heard the terrible screams of those Muggles, and yet, sleeping was really the only thing to do. Voldemort had provided, as a reward for behaving at that Death Eater meeting, some sort of kitty toy Harry wanted nothing to do with; he was not a kitty. He couldn't understand Voldemort's logic at all – what was the point in making Harry act like a kitty when he wasn't? He could never make Harry believe it, and even if he could, then what? Surely Harry was missing something very obvious – he tended to miss those things quite often as of late.

Harry lazily stirred the bowl of milk in the cage with his finger. That was all he ever got – tuna and milk. Milk and tuna. Boys liked variety, and so did kitties – Voldemort apparently didn't know that.

Hermione knew that. Hermione knew everything. She had a kitty – a real kitty, not a boy. Harry missed both Ron and Hermione like crazy. He wondered if there was a way to secretly get a letter to them, or a message, the way Dumbledore was sending messages to him.

"Is Kitten bored?"

Harry jumped, nearly hitting his head on the roof of the cage. Voldemort could move with a nearly silent stealth, often surprising Harry. It was creepy at first, but unfortunately, he was used to it now, as it happened quite often.

"No," Harry lied. If he told the truth, he was afraid Voldemort would make things his idea of interesting. No thanks – Harry would rather be bored.

"No, _Master_."

"No, Master." It was better to just say 'master' when necessary – if he didn't, he'd get spanked and still end up having to say it. Avoiding saying 'kitten' was fairly easy, however, and Harry did that whenever possible.

It was oddly quiet for a few moments. Voldemort did not respond, and Harry had to turn to look to see if the wizard was still there.

He was still standing there. Not sitting in his chair or on the bed like usual, but just standing, looking at Harry.

Harry squirmed, uncomfortable with the attention. All of a sudden, he became embarrassed to be in the cage, and a little more afraid – it suddenly felt more of vulnerability than a safe zone. What if Voldemort conjured the cage somewhere again? What if he locked the cage and never let Harry out?

"Come here, Kitten," Voldemort quietly instructed.

Harry complied, mostly just to get out of the cage. He tried to remember what dream Dumbledore always talked about, about false obedience and survival.

That didn't make him any less wary of the look in Voldemort's eyes, though.

He sat on his heels, waiting for Voldemort to speak. It didn't take long.

"It has been quite some time since Kitten last eliminated," Voldemort said. "Wouldn't you agree, Kitten?"

Harry hadn't _thought_ of it. He hadn't had the urge to use the loo in a long time. In fact, he could not remember having to go the entire time he had been at Voldemort's, which had been quite some time – it was now impossible for him to judge how long.

"Yes, Master." Even if he hadn't agreed on the inside, he would have agreed verbally, because Dumbledore had said to, and Dumbledore knew everything, just about.

"It has been a full twenty-four hours, in fact – it is unhealthy to wait so long. It should have said something sooner."

_Wait – no._ Voldemort was wrong. It hadn't been just twenty-four hours since Harry had last used the loo. It couldn't have been. Harry hadn't gone the entire time he had been in Voldemort's clutches, and he had been in his clutches for far more than twenty-four hours. Harry knew because of how many times he remembered eating, and how many times he had watched Voldemort sleep in the big bed.

It had been weeks. But how was that possible? It wasn't usual for someone to go that long without using the loo. Not at all. It maybe indicated a health problem... hopefully it did, in his case. Otherwise it was just freakish.

_Does it matter, Harry? Does it really matter if it was yesterday, or this century? You'll have a chance to go to the loo, a different room. Maybe means for escape._

Deep down inside, Harry thought maybe it did matter, but didn't let his choice of words reflect it. "Apologies, Master. Not sure why it's been so long."

Voldemort pointed his wand against the wall. A green box appeared against it.

A green box filled with kitty sand.

There was no way in hell Harry had done that and not remembered. Harry couldn't remember how many times he had eaten or slept in Voldemort's quarters, but he knew exactly how many times he had peed in a kitty litter box in his life.

Never ever.

"Hurry and use it," Voldemort urged. "I have a wonderful toy for you to play with afterwards."

Now that the thought entered Harry's brain, it made sense that Voldemort wouldn't give him the privacy to use the loo. And did he really need it? He had been naked for a long time now...

Yes, he did need it, because no privacy for that was humiliating.

"I don't know what you're playing at," Harry said, dropping any sort of 'kitten' act, edging away from the Dark wizard, "but I didn't go in that yesterday, or ever. It's barbaric."

A hissing sound escaped Voldemort. But when he spoke, he didn't sound too angry. "Kitten, most kittens all over the world use one, daily."

"Maybe so, but I'm a boy."

"_Crucio_!"

Fire engulfed Harry. He couldn't breathe. He couldn't speak. He couldn't scream. He couldn't think, at least not about anything but the pain.

The pain. There was no specific part of his body that didn't hurt. His head hurt. His arms hurt. His belly– oh, his belly.

He curled his toes in a desperate, unconscious effort to get his feet to stop hurting. He clawed the carpet – maybe moving would lessen the pain. He rolled onto his back, hoping that would lessen the pain of his snapping intestines, but no – that only made him aware of his melting spine.

When exactly the curse ended was impossible to guess. All Harry knew was that one moment he wanted to die, and the next, he was left with a dull ache, the pain from before only a memory.

A terrible memory.

"Use the box, Kitten." Voldemort's voice was cold. "Use it like you did yesterday."

It took him a minute to collect enough breath to speak. "I didn't use it yesterday."

"_Crucio_!"

He screamed this time. Screamed to whoever could hear him, screamed for the pain to go away. A scream that begged.

He could feel his eyelids melting over his eyeballs. The lack of breath was no doubt from his nostrils melting shut.

It was only after the curse had been lifted that Harry realised he had vomited. He realised it because not only had he writhed in it, it had a strong, fishy odour.

Voldemort's voice was still cold, but calm. "Has anyone told you of the time Bellatrix Lestrange tortured two people into insanity? And she tortures as a hobby – it's what I do for a living."

Harry lay in the vomit, unable to respond. He was unable to look anywhere but the ceiling. He could only concentrate on each laboured breath, nothing more.

"Use the box, Kitten."

_What's more humiliating, Harry? Peeing in a litter box, or this? It's not like he'll think any less of you for it._

_But it's not about just that. It's for Harry. I'm not a kitten, and I'm not going to pretend that I am. I'll eat fish, crawl around, and refer to myself as one... but this is too much._

_Too much. How many times have you thought that, and given in?_

"Use it!" Voldemort barked.

"No."

"_Crucio_!"

As soon as the curse began, Harry felt his bowel muscles lose control. And as he screamed and writhed about, he couldn't help but feel a small sense of satisfaction.

Because he had shit on the floor, not in the kitty litter box.

* * *

Voldemort gathered Harry into his arms, moving over to settle in his armchair – Harry felt too weak to protest.

"There, there." Voldemort wiped a trickling tear away from Harry's cheek. "Now, that would not have happened if Kitten had listened to its master. All the pain could have been avoided – and you would have gotten another toy."

Harry was too tired to push Voldemort away. He was too tired to respond. He was too tired to think of a response. All he knew is that he didn't pee in the litter box, and he didn't want any stupid toys.

"Next time, Kitten will listen straight away." Voldemort began stroking Harry's chest with his hand, acting as if the shit Harry had rolled in wasn't there. "It will make me happy. I hate it when Kitten hurts so."

_Then why did you hurt me? And I'm not a kitty. I'm a boy. Boy, boy, boy, boy, boy, boy, boy. Not a kitty._

Harry's sleepy brain slowly became aware of the state his naked body was in. He was covered in vomit, and very messy waste. It was sticky, and felt slimy against his skin.

Holding his neck up to look was too strenuous, however, and he let go, his head landing in the crook of Voldemort's arm.

Voldemort traced the scar on Harry's shoulder from the basilisk in second year. "If only Kitten had listened to me, it could have been spared much pain."

He began rubbing Harry down with a warm, damp flannel. He started with Harry's hair and face, and then his neck and behind his ears, working his way down.

The light circular movements felt good against Harry's skin. The warm flannel made him feel very warm, and took away the stinky yuck. Harry felt so appreciative of the white flannel that he almost forgot to wonder how Voldemort obtained it.

_Almost_.

Had Voldemort planned for Harry's reaction? How could he have planned for it? Admittedly, Harry wasn't exactly unpredictable, but contrary to what Voldemort insisted on, he couldn't read Harry's mind.

But how else could one explain the flannel? It would be a weird practise for a wizard – especially an evil one – to carry a warm damp flannel on their person at all times.

"Close your eyes," Voldemort whispered, the gentle circular massage now on Harry's hip. "Close its beautiful eyes."

Harry's eyes fluttered shut. Not because he was listening to Voldemort, but because he felt too exhausted to keep them open any longer.

Mostly.

**Coming up next in Disorder...  
Chapter VIII: Draining**


	8. Draining

**Disclaimer: I do not own "Harry Potter" or the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.**

**Chapter VIII: Draining**

* * *

Harry opened one eye, and shut it again. He was curled up on the small cushion Voldemort had placed in the room. He liked the cushion because Voldemort didn't try to make him ask, like a slave, to use it.

It was warm, comfy, and frankly, he slept better on the cushion than he ever did on the floor. He still refused to ever lay on the ottoman though – he wanted the stupid thing gone from the room.

He reached over onto the floor, groping for his glasses, before remembering they were not there. After years of wearing them, it was a hard thing to adjust to not needing them. Especially because as annoying as having glasses could be sometimes, he would rather have them and be at Hogwarts, than have 20/20 vision and be with Voldemort.

Harry would have been at Hogwarts by now, he figured. Every time Voldemort came in to sleep in his bed, Harry assumed a day had passed. He waited until Voldemort left, and then made a mark – a really tiny one – on the underside woodwork of the bed. He made them with his fingernail, and they were so tiny one would probably never notice them unless they were looking.

So far, he had twelve marks. One, two, three, four, five, double it plus two. That meant almost a fortnight. Add that to the probable month or two he had spent here before making the marks, and it was October or November, maybe even December – Harry loved Hogwarts in December.

"What is my kitten doing?"

Harry nearly bumped his head on the underside of the bed. He had been busy making a mark, and was now caught.

_Damn_.

"Nothing, Master." Harry crawled out from under the bed, praying that the use of 'master' would distract the wizard. "Was just– um..."

Voldemort motioned to the litter box he had once again set up against the wall. "Eliminate, Kitten."

Hanging his head, Harry crawled over to the box. It was tricky business, using it. The sand got everywhere if he wasn't careful, and as the box wasn't very big, he had to take care not to miss, or Voldemort would be angry.

There had been no repeats of the litter box incident. Harry wasn't stupid – he had learned last year what the effects of prolonged Cruciatus could be, and they weren't good. That was one thing Barty Crouch Jr. in disguise had been good for – he had taught things like they were. Harry needed to be strong if he was going to ever escape.

He carefully squatted so that the balls of his feet were the only parts of his body to touch the sand. He was lucky it was clean each time he used it, so he didn't have to be careful where he placed his feet.

Harry looked up at Voldemort, searching for that smile of approval he got as he went, a smile that always creeped Harry out. It was a smile he was guaranteed each time he used the litter box.

But Voldemort wasn't paying attention. He was instead moving over across the room. He began making odd markings on the wall with the tip of his wand.

Harry's gut twisted. He knew he should be glad that Voldemort was not watching him like a complete pervert, but he wasn't. It wasn't that he wanted Voldemort to watch – no! It was the smile... Harry wanted the smile. The smile of approval he always hated. The fact that Voldemort was too distracted sickened him... and the fact that it did scared him, though he didn't know why.

Expertly now, Harry covered his business with sand before manoeuvring out of the box, making an effort to get as little sand on the carpet as possible.

Voldemort still distracted, Harry went over to the basket of toys in the corner. He had assembled quite the collection of kitty toys now, as rewards for little things like saying 'master' without prompting, or using the kitty litter box without hesitation. Some, even though they were stupid kitty toys and not meant for boys, had saved him from dying of boredom. He slept less now than he did before, not feeling tired much at all, so the pretend mouse charmed to speed about was good for his boredom, and Seeker practise. He had unrolled and rolled back up that ball of purple yarn countless times.

He had plans for the yarn today, much better plans; he was going to break off a piece of it and make up some Cat's Cradle. He knew it was a girl's game, but he'd rather be girly and play Cat's Cradle than be a cat.

Harry held up a feathery ball toy and shook it, listening to the ringing of the bell. He was still trying to devise a way to make a little alert over the door, like the alarms in Muggle shops. That way, Voldemort couldn't sneak up on him.

But he had not quite figured out how, yet. He wanted sketching paper and pencils – or a parchment and quill – to draw a blueprint, but didn't think Voldemort would give him any. They were not suitable for kitties, probably.

"Pet, come here."

Harry startled. He was rarely addressed as 'Pet' by Voldemort these days, only when in the company of most Death Eaters. He always called him 'Kitten', which was annoying, but better than Pet. All the Death Eaters called him Pet – every time he went into that scary dark room, in that

(his)

cage, they referred to him as Pet. He associated 'Pet' with darkness and torture, and would much rather be called 'Kitten', any day.

Though if he really had a choice, he liked the name his mum gave him – Harry.

"Yes, Master." Harry dropped the toy and crawled over to Voldemort, though he'd really have preferred not to.

A thin gold line shot from Voldemort's hand, and came down towards Harry. Harry yelped and jumped back, fearful.

But the gold line didn't hurt Harry at all. In fact, upon further examination, it appeared to be like twine. Gold, glowing, magical twine.

Harry was close enough to get a good look at it, because it was attached to his collar.

"You put a leash on me?" Harry said, affronted.

"Muggles uses leashes," Voldemort corrected. "Kitten will not compare its master to that filth again."

Muggles weren't filth. They were nice. But you never dared argue with Voldemort. "Yes, Master."

Voldemort did not seem himself, and that bothered Harry. Typically, the wizard was calm and cool, not agitated and almost nervous. Normally, Voldemort was a scary calm – today he acted like he'd kill Harry if he put a toe out of line.

"Kitten will obey and respect its master," Voldemort hissed.

"Always, Master." Harry bit his lip, suddenly wishing he was asleep on the cushion again. "Kitten will obey and respect its master."

_If it had a master._

A knock on the door caused Harry to jump. No one ever knocked on the door. No one ever came to visit Voldemort. Harry hadn't seen anyone – outside the dark torture room – since he had been captured. Granted, he had slept a lot in the beginning, but he hadn't slept around the clock in weeks, he was fairly sure. If people frequently stopped in to visit Voldemort, Harry'd know. To not know would be a missed opportunity for escape.

Voldemort did not answer the door, but waved his hand to let the door swing open.

Swing open, as Harry had longed for weeks to see it do.

He nervously glanced up at Voldemort. The collar around his neck pressed against his throat as he leaned towards the door in his excitement, but he did not attempt to run. He knew better than that. Aside from being leashed, and being watched, he couldn't run when he hadn't the foggiest idea what was outside the door, what it looked like.

He'd just get caught, and, if not killed, severely punished. Dumbledore said to wait for the best, not the first opportunity.

A tall, thin man with hard features stood at the doorway. He had long, thinning blonde hair, and an unpleasant smile. It was the man Voldemort had addressed as 'Yaxley' that first night in the cage – Harry remembered, because Yaxley often appeared in Harry's nightmares, torturing little children who had parents, and families...

"My Lord," Yaxley bowed deeply. "Goyle and I are ready for Pet, if you are ready."

Fear stirred in Harry's heart. As dumb as it sounded, he wasn't usually too afraid around Voldemort any more. Voldemort was fairly predictable, as all he wanted was for Harry to listen. If Harry listened and obeyed, he was safe.

But Goyle and Yaxley were not so predictable. He didn't know what they had planned, but he knew he didn't like it. What if they took him to the dark, or hurt him? Maybe that was why Voldemort was acting unusually cold (for a Dark Muggle-killer), because he was angry at Harry, and was about to send him to be punished.

Voldemort passed the leash to Yaxley. "Take good care of it."

Harry did not like the grin that crossed Yaxley's face – it made him look slimy. "Yes, my Lord." He began to tug on the leash, choking Harry as he tried to remove him from the quarters where Harry had lived in relative safety for a long time.

Harry wanted to leave the room. Very much, in fact. He wanted to figure out what the best escape route was, and to never go back to Voldemort's quarters, ever. But he was also scared. Scared of where Yaxley was going to take him, scared of what Yaxley was going to do to him. Scared because Voldemort was in a bad mood, which never did bode well for Harry.

He was guaranteed relative safety, more or less, in Voldemort's quarters. Outside, there were no such guarantees. And though he knew he should be a Gryffindor and plunge ahead, he kept having mental images on the Jews walking to the gas chambers, like he had learned about in primary school.

"No!" Harry clawed at the carpet he had spent so much time sleeping and playing on, to avoid getting dragged away. "No! You can't have me! You can't take me anywhere! I'm staying here, and I'm a boy! B-O-Y spells 'boy', and I'm not going with you! You can't have me!"

Harry didn't know how long he ranted and pleaded before Voldemort made Yaxley stop choking him.

"Pet!" Voldemort harshly said. "What did I say about respect and speech!"

"I don't care!" Harry clutched the oft-kissed hem of Voldemort's robes. "Please don't let him take me! I want to stay here!"

A thought occurred to Harry, but he had to swallow the lump in his throat that accompanied said idea before he could use it. "Master, Kitten doesn't want to go with the man! Kitten is scared!" Harry's voice broke, and he began to weep. "Kitten is scared."

"Yaxley." Voldemort's voice was sharp. "Leave us a moment."

Harry's heart leapt as he watched Yaxley leave the room. Had his begging worked? It had been degrading to do, but like dream-Dumbledore had said, sacrifices of dignity had to be made for the Greater Good.

_The Greater Good._ Harry liked that.

"Pet," Voldemort's voice was dark and dangerous, and hardly comforting. "Pet will not be harmed in any way by Yaxley and Goyle. I will never allow it. It saddens me to learn that you have so little faith in me."

_Shit. Way to go, Harry._ "I-I-I-I-" He restarted. "Sorry. K-K-K-K-Kitten is scared! Kitten is sorry! It's just..."

Voldemort reached down and tilted Harry's head up towards him. "Kitten should trust Master. Yaxley!"

"Yes, my Lord." Yaxley came back into the room.

"Take Pet away. Be gentle – it is very afraid."

Harry numbly followed the man. Light poured in from the long bright corridor outside Voldemort's quarters – and how blindingly bright the corridor was!

The walls were white; the cold, hard-tiled floor was white. Light was emitting from Wizarding light fixtures that was not yellowy, but white, like that from a Muggle bulb, or a very powerful spell.

The corridor was long. Doors were all shut – Harry couldn't see anything but bright white.

It was slow going – no matter how much Yaxley tugged on the leash and grumbled, Harry couldn't move too fast. It was uncomfortable being on his hands and knees on the hard floor, and the corridor was so cold it gave him goosebumps.

All the doors in the corridor were shut, but it was easy to deduce that the hall was in either a U or a square shape by the time they had gone quite a ways. And then they entered an equally brightly lit room, one that immediately made Harry's blood run cold.

Voldemort had lied. He had lied to harry. He had sent his 'kitten' to be euthanised, like a kitty at a veterinarian's clinic. He was doomed. Completely doomed.

The small room held a steel table, and an assortment of medical-looking supplies. But what scared Harry the most was the needle – the huge needle attached to the huge syringe, in Goyle's hand.

Harry yelped, and began to baulk. He tried to back out of the room, pulling against the leash and collar with all of his strength.

He had a needle problem. He had always hated needles. When Harry was little, Dudley always told him scary stories about needles before he went to the doctor, and had once pinned him down whilst Piers stuck Aunt Petunia's sewing needles underneath his fingernails.

Never before though, had he encountered a needle as big as that one. And he preferred his encounter to end now, thank you very much.

"Pick him up, you weak bastard." Goyle laid down the syringe and came over to help Yaxley. "The Dark Lord never said anything about–"

Harry kicked at the overweight man's legs when he came near. Screw obeying Voldemort. I can take the Cruciatus. I can't take needles – and what do they need needles for? To put potions inside of me, to hurt me?

"Oh, is Pet in distress?" A woman came over, and knelt down beside Harry.

Harry glared at her. She had black hair, big lips, and an evil smile. He didn't trust her because he recognised her from Dumbledore's Pensieve. She was Bellatrix Lestrange, Sirius' cousin, and she had escaped Azkaban.

"Don't touch me!" Harry continued to kick at the Death eaters. "Don't you even think of touching me! Voldemort lied! He lied! He said you wouldn't hurt me! He said, that means–"

"For Merlin's sake! Cru-" Goyle raised his wand.

"Stop!" Bellatrix screeched. "The Dark Lord gave you strict orders not to harm it, I assume!"

"Yeah," Harry pushed himself as far away as he could. He crossed his arms over his chest. "You can't harm me."

"Come here, Pet," Bellatrix said in a coddling voice. "I will not harm you."

Harry didn't go into her outstretched arms. A hug sounded good, but he could wait for that until he got back to Hogwarts. He didn't trust Bellatrix.

Someone put an immobilising spell on him while he wasn't paying attention, however, which forced him to allow Yaxley to lift him onto the table and lay him down on his back.

Harry couldn't get up and escape – he couldn't even move his toes.

"No!" Harry protested again as Yaxley spread his arms and legs out. "I don't taste good! I mean, you can't do this to me! Voldemort's going to be mad – he says I'm his pet and that you can't harm me!"

Goyle chuckled. "And we won't. Permanently, that is."

The frustration of watching someone move your limbs, and being unable to do anything about it, was immense. Of bring touched, regardless of where, and having your body betray you...

"Bellatrix, out. Our Lord did not give you this duty for a reason." Goyle shut the door on her.

Yaxley shook his head. "That crazy bitch wouldn't know when to quit – she'd torture it."

"I think it thinks it's already being tortured." Goyle held a bright _Lumos_ in Harry's eyes. "How many fingers am I holding up, Pet?"

How can I see with this light in my face? But Harry bit back any sort of response.

"Right here, Goyle?" Yaxley lightly touched Harry's hipbone. Harry's skin got goosebumps.

"No, you idiot. You'll hit the bone. Give me the needle."

The needle in question was huge. It was several inches long, and only slightly narrower than Harry's wrist. They couldn't stick that in him! It would kill him!

But they ignored his loud protests, and shoved the needle into his waist.

A terrible scream filled the room, and Harry felt shame from the fact that it belonged to him. The entire area felt as if it were on fire, as if his guts were frying. It was worse than he remembered the Cruciatus being, because it was all concentrated in one spot.

"God, it's a gusher," Yaxley observed through the loud pounding in Harry's ears. "Have you ever seen so much come out of one wiz– pet?"

"It has a supply to rival most adult men's – that's more than half of the reason we're doing this," Goyle said. "Shut up, Pet."

But Harry couldn't stop screaming. The terrible part, or at least the most terrible part, was not the pain. It was the sense that part of him was going away. The closest thing Harry had to compare it to was the Dementor's kiss. He was starting to feel hollow, like his being was being sucked into the syringe.

His world was once again going blurry. He began to feel nauseous, and wondered if it was because he hadn't yet had breakfast. He could see Cho Chang in his mind, skipping rope with other girls, her breasts bouncing up and down. He could see Hedwig flying high in the sky, trying to catch the snitch.

_Fly Hedwig! Catch it!_

And then he saw no more.

* * *

_Master... Pet... Please, Master... Good Kitten... Respect Master..._

Blearily, Harry opened his eyes to Voldemort's face. "Master," he mumbled.

Voldemort lifted Harry off of the steel table and held him tightly to his chest. "The pain is gone now, Kitten. You are safe with Master, now. Rest."

Harry closed his eyes again. The pain was gone, and somewhere inside him he felt happy, because he missed getting hugs.

* * *

Severus ducked his head as he stepped into Heathrow airport. He wanted to avoid being seen by Muggles and airport security – not an easy thing to do when wearing robes and a black hooded cloak.

He tried to subtly catch the eye of Nymphadora Tonks, without any of his Death Eater colleagues realising that he was doing so. But the twit was too busy gazing at the greying werewolf to notice anything amiss. The stupid girl was going to get herself killed.

Christ, when had members of the Order gotten so young? Surely she was not old enough to be defending against the Dark Lord. Severus knew that he had been younger, in fact, during the First War, as had Lily, Potter, and his friends, but he did not think they had come across that young and naïve.

Or at least he hadn't. He had never been naïve.

It had been a month and four days since Potter's

(_Pet's, Severus. Do not be stupid)_

capture. A very long month and four days, coupled with only one hundred hours of sleep total for Severus. He spent long hours – too many of them – making potions for the Dark Lord, razing the homes of Muggles, torturing them incessantly, reporting to the Dark Lord, reporting to Dumbledore, attending Order meetings, reporting back to the the Dark Lord with fabricated information that Dumbledore left him to make up himself, and then making plans to rescue 'Pet' from the Dark Lord.

There was his job at Hogwarts to be considered, as well. Oh yes; Severus still spent nine hours a day teaching students and preparing lessons alone. Dumbledore was on his back for not representing Slytherin at the Head Table, and for neglecting his House duties altogether. The Dark Lord was pressuring Severus to tend to his House duties as well, as Slytherins were to be swayed to agree with his ideals. Severus still had not figured out how to do that without causing damage to the children; brats, the lot of them, but they were still _children_.

On a positive note, Severus had not yet found the time to spend his last two pay cheques.

The Order of the Phoenix had finally compiled a listing of their assets and liabilities. Lupin's enhanced senses were an asset, but the fact that he was 'indisposed' once – occasionally twice – a month was a liability. Moody's defence skills and quick thinking were a pro, his unusual appearance, the fact that he relied on a wooden leg, and his acting too rashly, a con.

The only thing that gave Severus confidence at the moment was the prophesy. Severus did not know it in its entirety, but he knew that Potter supposedly had powers the Dark Lord did not, and he knew that Dumbledore knew the prophesy, whilst the Dark Lord did not. That gave them an advantage.

Looking over the group of ginger, crippled, diseased, fugitive, and delusional Order members, it was very well their only advantage.

He ducked into the men's room and peeked out the door, waiting for his signal. The Order had made an elaborate plan to bait the Death Eaters, one Severus had not, for the record, been in favour of.

The plan, in a nutshell, was to empty the Dark Lord's headquarters of Death Eaters as completely as possible, so that Severus would be able to sneak in and get Potter. It was not foolproof in the slightest, but Dumbledore had given his approval, so ahead they went with it.

They had not counted on one simple prospect – what if Severus were unable to gain access and rescue 'Pet'? What if he had to go along with the Death Eaters to meet the Order?

He pulled the mask over his face, charming it so that it would not move or fall off of its own accord. He said a small prayer to whoever might be listening, and then revealed himself, along with the other Death Eaters.

All hell broke lose. Muggles began to scream as they realised something was happening. A security guard aimed his gun at Crabbe – it was the last thing he ever did.

Severus winced as the security guard fell to the floor, and was grateful for the mask hiding his expression.

He shot _Sectumsempra_ at Tonks, who expertly avoided the curse and shot a simple Jelly-Legs Jinx back. Another _Sectumsempra_ was aimed at Lupin; Lupin dodged it and the terrible curse hit a Muggle.

Each wizard and witch had a spell that they were fond of using in battle. It was usually one that they were especially good at, or that held a special significance for them. Severus preferred _Sectumsempra_, not only because he had invented it, but also because it was dangerous – though not necessarily fatal. It enabled him to shoot it at the Order, at innocent Muggles, and not actually kill. It reinforced his reputation among the Death Eaters, and yet kept his conscience as clear as it was going to get.

Lucius Malfoy was shooting the Killing curse at anyone who got in his way, and Bellatrix Lestrange had a rather impressive number of Muggles writhing under the Cruciatus. Alastor Moody also had a fondness for the Killing curse, and was aiming it towards any black-hooded figure he could find. Black, Polyjuiced to appear to be someone else, was wasting time using _Stupefy_ on various Death Eaters and pulling off their masks, no doubt looking for his once-friend, Pettigrew. Shacklebolt levitated people to great heights to drop them, which created a great bloody mess, and was a danger to bystanders.

Their mission from the Dark Lord was simple; send a message to Dumbledore. The Dark Lord was soon to reign, and there was little Dumbledore could do about it. He had sent them to make a point.

Severus ducked, almost getting hit by a stray green burst. "Yaxley! Do take care where you aim that stunted stick of yours!"

Yaxley and Goyle had arrived late. They had been draining Potter, which Severus thought was rather unfortunate. Those two were the last people he would want to puncture a hole in his body.

It was time to get out. There were an ungodly number of Muggle bodies to trip over, and Bellatrix was halfway through sending the Mormon Tabernacle Choir through their last hymn. It was a waste of time and lives.

"Bellatrix, go to Him!" Severus shouted over the screams. "Stop!"

She paused in torturing, her crazed grin distorting her face. Her hollow eyes gave no indication of what she was thinking, if she was thinking.

"Save them! More for next time!" Reasoning with the wench was impossible.

"Remus!" A shrill scream filled Severus' ears.

Severus turned from Bellatrix to see the werewolf writhing under the Cruciatus, and yet somehow still managing to cast tickling distracting charms and boil curses.

Severus did not have time to think – he ran and pushed Goyle out of the way.

"Let's go!" He said. "The Dark Lord said to make a point, not to destroy the sodding country!"

Severus carried more weight in the inner circle than Goyle did, most of the Dark Lord's trust being given to Bellatrix and Severus. Goyle therefore complied without argument. That left only a handful of Death Eaters left in the vicinity.

Severus looked around at the broken, the dying. All of the Muggles would die without intervention. And there was not a thing he could do for them without undoing the Dark Lord's point, and losing all the trust he had worked for.

Severus was a spy. Dumbledore knew that, and the Dark Lord knew that. The Dark Lord was under the illusion that Severus' loyalties were with him, but if Severus acted, just for a moment, like he was with the Order, the Dark Lord would not complain; he was always insisting that Severus make the Order believe he is on their side, after all.

He darted over to Lupin – who was still writhing under the pain of the Cruciatus, still aiming hexes at the few Death eaters left. Severus was lucky to narrowly miss one that would have left him with a terrible foot cramp.

"_Finite Incantatem_!" Severus stopped the curse. He pulled of his mask and knelt in front of Lupin. "Merlin – you're drooling. Stop; the last thing we need is for any of your saliva to get into a human's open wound."

Severus waved his wand to repair the severe damage done to Lupin's oesophagus, and to reverse the flesh-eating wound in the groin that Rabastian was so fond of inflicting.

"Breathe, Lupin." Severus was in a hurry, so he did not take time to clean Lupin's urine-stained clothes. He was not a kind man, and was not fond of Lupin at all, so perhaps he would not have anyway. "Breathe – you're fine."

Severus' left arm began to flare – a single touch would Apparate him back to the Dark Lord. He only had moments.

Lupin's eyes cleared. "Severus," he said hoarsely. In a moment of delirious, idiotic, Gryffindor tenderness, and reach out and laid his furry palm on Severus' arm.

His left arm.

The familiar sensation of side-along Apparition began, and there was not a damned thing Severus could do about it.

**Coming up next in _Disorder_...  
Chapter IX: Deformed**


	9. Deformed

**Disclaimer: I do not own "Harry Potter" or the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.**

**Chapter IX: Deformed**

* * *

The dreams were always the same. Word for word, Dumbledore explained to Harry that he had to suffer to survive, and Harry went out to play cricket.

He could never get dream-Harry to ask the right questions. If Dumbledore was sending Harry the dream, Harry wanted to be able to send messages back. He wanted Dumbledore to make sure Hedwig was okay - surely the Dursleys had freed her when he disappeared. He wanted to know who Gellert was. He wanted to know what the action plan was. He wanted reassurance that Snape was a good guy. And he wanted to know if it was possible for Voldemort to read his mind. The idea of mind-reading sounded just about as bogus as Divination, but Professor Trelawney had made at least one true prediction.

He needed reassurance.

He rolled over and lay with the pillow squashing his nose. He just wanted to go home. Even if that home was the Dursley home - he would rather be back in the cupboard on Privet Drive than be pretending to be 'Pet' or 'Kitten'.

_Pillow?_ Wait – Harry didn't have a pillow in Voldemort's quarters. He didn't have a bed for pillows – only a little pet cushion. How could his nose _possibly_ be squashed?

He opened his eyes and sat up. With his vision fixed, he could see quite clearly, without aid, that he was in a bed in the centre of the room he had been living in for weeks, months.

Voldemort's bed.

Harry tried to scramble out of the bed, but with his legs tangled in the covers, he fell out, landing hard on the plush carpet. He crawled over to the hearth, breathing heavily.

_You did not get into that bed. You didn't._ He was sure he hadn't. He didn't remember getting into Voldemort's bed, and was sure he wouldn't have if he were in his right mind. He would have never gotten into Voldemort's bed as an act of defience; he was a rebel, but not stupid.

Protectively, he reached down and cupped his genitals. Nothing had happened, right? It couldn't have – Voldemort was a mean person, but he wasn't... no. And Voldemort wasn't even around. Harry had been alone in the bed.

A wave of nausea hit him. He was safe. Voldemort couldn't have touched him there. He was safe, and wasn't in Voldemort's bed anymore... but then why was he so nauseous?

He laid his cheek on the smooth stones in front of the hearth, welcoming the warmth they provided. It felt good, almost good enough to lull him to sleep again...

_No. You have to keep watch and make sure nothing happens. You're getting too comfortable with the dumb rules and restrictions. Somehow, you ended up in Voldemort's bed. You're not pretending to obey when that happens – you're giving up. Don't you dare give up, Harry Potter. Your mum died for you, and you can't waste that. Ron and Hermione need you, and Sirius said that he has a wonderful surprise; you have to get out and see what that is._

_And you will fight. You will piss in the fire, cut off the collar, dodge to Cruciatus, and bite Voldemort's ankles. Tomorrow. Now you sleep. So you'll be strong enough. Tomorrow._

And so, an unnaturally tired Harry Potter fell into another deep sleep.

* * *

"Kitten, are you still sleeping?" A chuckle. "When does it plan on eating or using its box? I will not clean urine from my hearth regularly, nor will I remove its waste in its sleep again."

Harry groaned and rolled over, back facing Voldemort. He did not want to see him or get up. He had been having a wonderful dream; he was under this _big_ palm tree, and–

"Kitten, I have a surprise for you."

At that, Harry opened his eyes. Not liking surprises was a recent development that had started the moment Dumbledore pulled his name out of the Goblet of Fire last year. He especially did not like surprises from Voldemort; they were the worst kind.

"I don't wanna know," Harry said.

A stinging hex hit his back, but he was too tired to react. Too used to it.

"Means _Kitten _doesn't want to know," Harry mumbled, checking to make sure he was curled in a ball as opposed to sleeping stretched out – he was. "Sleepy. Doesn't like surprises."

"You will like this one," Voldemort said. "Come, Kitten. Draining can make pets overtired and weak; you must eat to regain your strength."

_Draining_? That sounded familiar – ah, draining. Voldemort had made mention of that when Harry had first been captured. He had said Harry had been drained. Harry figured he had meant emotionally drained; being kidnapped had made him feel many emotions. Being touched _there_ had, too.

But what had happened lately to emotionally drain…

He remembered. _The needle. The screaming. Voldemort's bed._

He tried to sit up, but felt his head swim. "Get away from me! Get away!"

Voldemort's scaly hand ghosted along Harry's back. "What is troubling you, Kitten?"

Really, how obvious was the answer to that question? He'd been kidnapped, touched, tortured, forced to hear people tortured, given a bad shot with a huge needle–

"Get away from me!" Harry wanted to jerk away from Voldemort's touch, but found he was too weak to. Hot tears spilled down his cheeks as he continued. "Don't touch me! No one is allowed to touch me!" It was Harry's body, so he made the rules.

"My kitten does not trust me?" Voldemort, surprisingly, didn't punish Harry for saying 'me' instead of stupid stuff.

How could one trust the Dark Lord? That was a stupid question. "You said they wouldn't harm me! And they did! They did harm me! You lied!" Harry gathered whatever strength he had and jerked away from Voldemort.

Voldemort thankfully did not touch him again. "I did not. I told you that it would not suffer permanent damage. Has it performed a self-examination? I think Kitten will find that it's quite all right."

No, Harry hadn't looked himself over, but he was too dizzy to see straight to do it, anyway. "Why was I in your bed?"

"Is that the appropriate way to refer to yourself?"

_Damn_. _So much for getting away with rebellion._ "Fine. Why was Kitten in your bed, Master?"

"Kitten was overly exhausted from the draining, so I thought it would find comfort in recuperating in its master's bed. It was rather distraught."

Voldemort was an idiot, Harry decided. Harry was distraught, so Voldemort thought sleeping in his sworn enemy's bed would make it _better_?"

"What's draining?" Harry asked next.

"Come with me to breakfast, and I will explain to Kitten all it needs to know," Voldemort promised.

* * *

A door had appeared, leading to a rather large room with a big dining table.

Harry was too dizzy and sleepy to follow Voldemort into the new room, so Voldemort called in two unfamiliar, squeaky house-elves. They had the power to levitate humans, a power not even wizards – not even Voldemort – had. They levitated him into the room, settling him on a soft cushion right next to Voldemort's chair.

He looked around.

The walls – every centimetre – were covered with bookcases. Each one overflowing with books. Were Harry the type of boy who enjoyed reading, he might have found the room very exciting.

_Reading_. He blinked back stupid tears. He missed Hermione so much. He even missed Ron complaining about Hermione.

"Now, now, Kitten – it is simply overtired. Eat. Food will help you gain your strength. I will warn you that it might taste a bit different, as it has been mixed with a potion, but the potion has no adverse effects. It will restore some of your physical strength."

At Voldemort's words, two dishes appeared on the floor in front of Harry. One had the rich creamy milk that Harry was always given to drink, but the other dish was filled with… not tuna!

Harry was so tired of tuna, he could scream. If his guesses about how long ago he had been captured were correct, it was all he had eaten for months. He hadn't cared much for tuna to begin with, but now? He positively hated it.

And this wasn't even fish. It was chicken!

"I thought Kitten deserved a special treat after the draining." Voldemort delicately took a bite of his three-course meal. "It did not behave well, I understand, but now that Kitten knows the procedure, I expect Kitten will behave from now on."

Harry knew 'draining' as the big needle. He swallowed his food. "What's draining?" He asked, hoping for a more in-depth answer.

"To understand that, Kitten, one would have to have a clear understanding of the anatomy of a wizard or witch," Voldemort said.

Harry flushed. He had a very clear understanding of it, he thought. He hadn't worn clothes in months, and went to a boarding school. Though he had never seen a girl naked in real life, he had seen scantily-clad girls in Dean's swimsuit calendar, and naked ones in Dudley's magazine. Once, a sixth-year girl had gotten drunk and begun to strip in the common room, but Hermione had dragged him and Ron away before they could see anything. Lots of the older girls wore revealing lingerie in the common room late at night.

However, as much as Harry could remember about the draining, it hadn't involved anything down there.

"It is difficult to explain to one without a bit of understanding, so I will try to make things as clear as possible," Voldemort said. "The ability to perform magic is inherited. Magic is everywhere, of the earth, but it also needs to be inside a person, for the perfect to be able to wield control over it."

"What gives wizards and witches the ability to perform magic manifests as a substance inside the body. It flows, mixed with the blood, so most labour under the delusion that it is the blood that is different. They are wrong. Does Kitten understand so far?"

_Yeah. Magical blood is not magical blood until it's mixed with something. Got it. I'm not stupid._Harry's vision and dizziness cleared slowly as he ate the food. He could now make out the details of what was around him.

"This substance, called Veneficus, secretes from a very small area, in very small amounts for most magical people. Those more powerful produce it in quite large amounts, and it runs rampant through their bodies."

"There is an increasingly common fluke, a deformity, in Muggle children, in which they are born with Veneficus. They are not magical, though they can perform magic. It does not belong to them. A person born to two humans, appearing like an animal, would not necessarily be an animal, would it? The same reasoning applies. It is an increasingly common problem in evolution, and to prevent it from taking– ah, but that is another conversation." Voldemort apologetically smiled. "Forgive me, Kitten – I can go on."

"This substance in the body is a wonderful thing, should the person be of Wizarding heritage. Occasionally, however, this substance is not wanted. Perhaps parents wish for their child to be without magic so that they can live as Muggles – a very common occurrence fifteen years ago – or perhaps a witch or wizard will give it up for _love_," Voldemort spat out. "Certain foolish researchers have begun the process of trying to transfer magic into a non-magical person with no stolen magic of their own. An attack is scheduled for next Friday."

Suddenly, Harry's chicken didn't taste so good anymore. Why would Voldemort do that? It was just an experiment. It didn't mean the researchers would succeed. And even if they did, what was the harm? It wasn't like there were people standing in line, waiting to get their magic taken away to give to a Muggle.

Draining. Draining took away the substance, the Vene**-**something Voldemort spoke of. The stuff that made people's magic.

Harry's magic was what he held most dear to him. It had changed his life, saved his life. Without magic, Harry would have gone to the public Muggle school near Privet Drive and had his lights knocked out on the first day. Without magic, he wouldn't have any friends; he wouldn't have met Ron, Hermione, Neville, or Sirius. Without magic, he had nothing.

He had nothing.

He opened his mouth to protest, readied his legs to jump to his feet, and balled his fists to knock Voldemort's lights out. However, he did not. Peace began to fill him, a calm he had never known.

"Kitten's magic is not gone forever – calm down." Voldemort reached down and stroked Harry's back, something that usually infuriated him – and it did – but the weird calm wouldn't let him protest.

"Playing with my mind," Harry realised out loud. He spoke evenly, calmly... even though he was madder than he'd ever been before. Voldemort had to be playing with Harry's mind, or Harry had been doused with a calming agent. There was no other possibility – Harry would not just be sitting there unless his mind was warped. He'd get up and fight. He wanted to. But it was like there was a false calmness over the surface of his body, while rage boiled underneath.

"What have I been telling you all along, Kitten?" Voldemort chuckled. "You are my pet – I control your body, your mind, and – dare I say it? Possess them." He patted Harry's head. "Eat now. You have not yet seen your surprise."

Harry couldn't even growl with anger. Did all this mean Voldemort could read his mind? What did that mean? How could he do it? Was there any way to stop him?

"Kitten's not hungry anymore." Harry pushed his food away, feeling the urge to cry again, like a little baby.

Voldemort pushed his own meal away as if satisfied, as if he hadn't been fucking with a boy's mind and talking of murder and bodily fluids. "Let's go see your surprise then, shall we?

* * *

His vision had cleared considerably and he did feel more awake than he had before eating, but he still felt so weak. He did not want any surprises.

Voldemort did not leash him, or cage him. Harry didn't question it, but felt Voldemort might as well have done so, anyway – how could he escape when he felt as weak as he did? How could he escape if Voldemort could read his mind?

If Voldemort _could_ read his mind. Harry had no absolute proof that he could. Voldemort was a Slytherin and a tricky man – a very tricky man. He knew Voldemort had some sort of control over his mind because otherwise Harry would feel fully angry.

_Voldemort said he didn't take your magic for good – he said he would give it back._

_You idiot – how can he give it back? Why would he give it back? If he did,you might be able to escape._

_Maybe he doesn't _have_ to give it back,_ Harry reasoned as he followed alongside Voldemort down the cold corridor, thankfully in the opposite direction as the 'draining room'. _They drained you twice already. When you skin your knee, you don't lose blood forever. Your body creates new blood. It must be the same with this stuff._

A man Harry recognised as someone named Rodolphus met Voldemort and Harry outside a big silver door.

"My Lord," Rodolphus bowed deeply.

"Rodolphus, greet Pet, as well. It is accompanying me."

Something about Rodolphus scared Harry. He had a look in his eyes that made Harry's blood run cold. He could not help it _–_ when Rodolphus gave him that creepy smile, Harry hid his face in the hem of Voldemort's robes,

Voldemort chuckled. "Pet is very shy."

What? Harry wasn't shy! He had played a singing carrot in his second year in primary school, and everyone had clapped loudly. Two of the kid's mums had asked for his autograph. He remembered especially well the way Aunt Petunia had spanked him so hard he wet himself, for drawing attention away from Dudley, who was in the potato chorus.

However, if being shy got him away from Rodolphus... then okay, Harry could be shy.

"My Lord, this may be premature, but I wished to ask you before Goyle did," Rodolphus said. "This is the one that is intimate with a disowned person in Bellatrix's family, so I was hoping we could be the ones to properly... _dispose_ of this one." Rodolphus' teeth were all yellowy when he smiled. "It is our anniversary approaching, my Lord, and it would mean such a lot to her _–_ to us _–_ as a gift."

Harry looked up at Voldemort, curious to know what he'd say. Harry was hoping Voldemort would give his answer, and they would continue on their way.

Living around Voldemort had taught Harry to pay close attention to things people said. When someone said 'don't worry', it did not mean there was nothing to worry about, for example. When Voldemort said there would be no _permanent_ damage that said nothing for _temporary_ damage. Some people were very selective about their words, having hidden meanings. Plots inside plots.

Rodolphus wanted something _–_ someone _–_ that Bellatrix was not related to, but was maybe married to or kissing or dating someone she was related to. Someone disowned.

Harry was not one to leap to conclusions, he didn't think, but if Bellatrix was related to Sirius... Sirius was disowned. He'd said so. Harry remembered Sirius saying that one other Black was disowned, but right off, he couldn't remember who, or what for.

It was probably the husband or wife to that person, though, that Rodolphus was talking about. Sirius wasn't married or anything, unless... unless that was the terribly wonderful surprise? That he was getting married? Harry wondered who he would be getting married to after getting out of Azkaban such a short while ago... unless it was the pink-haired lady that tried to rescue Harry, maybe.

"That is a very bold request," Voldemort frowned. "And I promised a similar privilege to Severus. I am inclined to believe he brought it here intentionally, in fact. Besides, it is not to be disposed of until I give my word. It will prove a useful tool. Good day, Rodolphus – let us be."

"Kitten, look at me," Voldemort said.

_Why does he always call me Kitten when no one else is around?_ He hoped it wasn't part of twisting his mind, or trying to, anyway.

He looked up at Voldemort. "Yes, Master?"

Voldemort's thin lips curled into a smile. But not a reassuring one in the slightest. "It is time for Kitten's surprise. When I open this door, does Kitten promise it will stay by my side and let me speak?"

Harry turned this over in his head. Unlike Voldemort, Harry kept his promises. Around Voldemort, it could be considered a survival method.

"It depends," Harry finally said. "If a Dugbog or something bad is in there and comes running after Kitten, no."

Voldemort did not chuckle at that. "And assuming there is not a Dugbog behind this door?" He motioned to the heavy silver door.

Harry sighed. One of the many problems with Voldemort's twisted game was that he made you think, for the briefest moment, that you actually had a choice in the matter.

"Will remain by your side, Master."

Voldemort opened the door.

Harry gasped. He really hated surprises.

**Coming up next in **_**Disorder**_**...  
Chapter X: Discussions**


	10. Discussions

**Disclaimer: I do not own "Harry Potter" or the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.**

**Chapter X: Discussions**

* * *

"Now, Pet, look at me," Voldemort said softly, reverting back to 'Pet'.

Harry tried to look away, but it took several moments to manage. It was like a terrible car or potions accident, when you wanted to look away, but really couldn't. He could feel tears streaming down his cheeks as he did. "Yes, Master?" He croaked.

Voldemort nodded inside. "There is a charm on this door. He cannot see out, even with the door open. He cannot see or hear us right now, understand?"

Harry choked back a sob, nodding. "Is he– is he alive?" He could barely stand to ask, but to not ask...

Voldemort snorted. "Of course he's alive – does it think I would show it a corpse?"

Harry didn't know. Voldemort let him hear people be tortured to death all the time. Twenty-five minutes – that was how long it took for an adult to die from the Cruciatus. Harry was always – thankfully – unable to see, but he counted the seconds. Twenty-five series of sixty seconds.

"I have brought Pet here for a social activity," Voldemort explained. "I know you get tired of being cooped up all day."

Harry did get tired of being cooped up all day, but Voldemort didn't have to kidnap Remus Lupin to remedy that!

Lupin was chained to a wall at the far end of the otherwise empty room. He had his wrists cuffed, Harry could see, to the wall, leaving the rest of his body to dangle and lay on the floor.

He looked terrible. His clothes were gone, save his trousers, showing off the scars and cuts on his body – judging by the blood, many of them were brand new. His trousers were patched, as Harry remembered them being, but were badly torn in some places, and had inside-out pockets. Lupin's head hung, his hair in his face, making him look asleep or very sad (if not dead).

"Master, can I-I-I-I-I-I-It go to him?" Harry nearly slipped up in his haste. "May Kitten see him? May Kitten talk to him? May–" His voice broke.

He liked Lupin. A lot. Lupin was his old teacher, and his friend. He was the only one of Harry's teachers to ever be his friend, except for Hagrid. His second grown-up friend. He had taught Harry the complex Patronus charm, a charm that required a happy memory.

Harry didn't think he'd have any more happy memories if he ever got out of this. It didn't matter much – his magic was kaput, anyway.

"Yes, but only if you follow your master's rules," Voldemort said. "Severus and I are going to discuss the mongrel in the next room. It may converse with him, as long as it continues to show me the utmost respect."

The utmost respect? What did that mean? Just that he had to say 'Master' and 'Pet', or something else entirely? Did that mean he had to defend Voldemort if Lupin said something bad about him? The likelihood of that was enormous!

"Does Master mean Kitten should continue what it is doing now?" Harry asked hesitantly.

Voldemort nodded. "And should Pet disrespect me, I shall know – punishment will not only affect Pet, but the beast, as well."

_Mind-reading. That was how Voldemort could tell. Harry hoped he couldn't read Lupin's mind – Lupin probably knew where Sirius was at._

"Yes, okay," Harry said quickly. "It will respect its master – may it go in?"

Voldemort gestured inside the room. "Be my guest."

Harry tentatively began to crawl into the room. He did not stand on his feet hardly at all anymore – it didn't make crawling and more comfortable or natural for a human to do, but it was beginning to become more natural for _Harry_ to do_._

_You're naked, he realised. Lupin is going to be able to see you naked. Harry would be more self-conscious about it if he thought Lupin cared about that. Lupin just didn't seem like the type – he was the one who had to transform once a month with no clothes, or tear them up, after all._

"Professor," Harry whispered, just in case the man was sleeping. "Professor Lupin?"

Lupin didn't answer. Harry turned to see if Voldemort was still watching – he was, now with Snape by his side.

"Um, Professor Lupin?" Harry spoke a little louder, placing his hand on Lupin's knee.

That did the trick – Lupin's body jerked at Harry's touch. He opened his eyes, looking wildly around, until his eyes came to rest on Harry.

Lupin's face looked awful. There was a big black bruise covering one side of his face, and his eyes looked tired.

"Harry?" Lupin croaked. "Harry... is that you?" Lupin's voice broke – he acted like he couldn't believe what he was seeing.

And he probably couldn't believe it – Harry Potter on the floor with a collar?

Harry self-consciously brought his hand up to hide the 'PET' tag. "Um, mischief managed?"

"Harry, you're safe! You're alive! You're–"

_A kitty._

Harry stayed a bit away from Lupin. He didn't want to crowd him – he knew being kidnapped could be scary from first-hand experience. And plus, as much as he wanted a hug from anyone but Voldemort, he didn't think Lupin would like someone naked cuddling up to him.

He wasn't so sure Voldemort would like him doing it, either.

He looked behind himself again – Voldemort and Snape were gone.

"Harry we have been so worried!" Lupin brought Harry's attention back to him. "You cannot believe all the trouble we have gone through, trying to ensure your survival."

Harry nervously bit his lip. Saying 'Master' and 'Kitten' wasn't by any means a habit, but he was used to doing it around Voldemort and bad guys now. How could he say them in front of Lupin, though?

But if Voldemort really could read minds, Lupin needed to know.

"The Dark Lord can read minds, I-I-I-I-I-I-I– quite possibly."Harry caught himself – would Voldemort mind being referred to as 'the Dark Lord'? He had made it up – then again, he had also made up 'Lord Voldemort', and he hated to be called that.

Lupin's forehead creased. "Yes, I know that."

His mouth gaped open. Lupin _knew? How long had he known? Did everyone know? All this time? And no one had told him?_

"The 'mind-reading', as you call it, is called ' Leglimency', Harry. He can do it well, however, Voldemort is one of the–"

"Don't say his name!" Harry screeched, in alarm. "You'll get in trouble! He doesn't like his name!"

Lupin paused, and then spoke, his voice noticeably soft. "All right. I won't say his name." He nodded to a space beside him. "Come over here."

Harry hesitated. "Are you sure? Kind of naked." He avoided saying 'kitten' or 'it'.

Lupin stared, and then chuckled. "I have seen the Potter family jewels too often to care – do not forget I have changed your nappies, Harry."

A flush came over Harry. Now he really felt self-conscious. "Um, okay."

He crawled over and sat on his heels next to Lupin – Voldemort didn't let Harry sit on his bum!

Lupin noticed. "Harry, is something wrong with..."

Harry shook his head. "Not allowed to sit on it."

Lupin's eyes widened. "At all? That can do damage to your knees over time. Is it just crossing your legs that you're not allowed to do, or can you stretch them out as you sit, curl them around you...?"

"Never asked." Harry felt like their conversation was so meaningless, like they should be discussing more important things. _Why sit around and discuss_ _sitting positions when more important things could be said? Perhaps Lupin knew telepathy like Dumbledore and could send a message for Harry._

"You haven't even said anything about the collar." Harry swung the object around his neck, as he had begun to do out of habit.

"I noticed it," Lupin sighed. "Has he hurt you?"

"What?" Voldemort used to hurt him all the time – Cruciatus, making him go hungry, draining... but for the most part now just used a stinging hex if Harry was too reluctant or slow.

"Has he touched you inappropriately, Harry?" Lupin's voice was serious. "I have no doubt he has tried multiple curses."

_Touched. Touched. Touched in the dark. Like a dirty boy. 'Cut it off', she said..._

Had Voldemort touched Harry down there? Someone had... unless it had all been a dream, just a bad dream... but he didn't think it had been.

But that established, did Lupin need to know? More importantly, _should _he know? Harry didn't think so – Voldemort had shown Harry a picture in a book of a guy with his bullocks attached to a collar around his neck, and had told Harry it would happen to him if he told any one of Voldemort's secrets. If Harry told Lupin about the touching, that might make Voldemort angry.

And as much as Harry disliked having his bits fully displayed, he liked having them where they were, thank you very much.

"No," Harry fervently shook his head, hoping that made his lie more believe. "Not a bit."

Lupin raised a brow. "Are you sure? To me, collaring a human and keeping them nude signifies a severe–"

_No. It could have been Voldemort, but it also could have been someone else. _"Well, sometimes he pats my head, or sits me on his lap," Harry relented.

Lupin slowly nodded. "All right. If you're sure."

"I am," Harry insisted. "One hundred percent positive. Do you know telepathy?"

Lupin couldn't have looked more surprised had Harry asked him if he had ever owned a herd of periwinkle hippogriffs. "No, I cannot say that I do. That's a result of a bond that develops between two very close individuals, their magic combining in such a way that it links their minds. It is common in twins, and also long-time partners. It is a very personal question to ask, Harry, akin to sexual ones of a couple's private life. You may ask me anything, but I advise you to never ask that question to anyone else unless it is a very close friend."

Perhaps 'telepathy' had been the wrong word to use. "But, I mean, can you send dreams to someone? Because I keep having this dream I think Dumbledore sends me."

Lupin's eyes widened, and his body noticeably stiffened. "What happens in these dreams?"

"Well, they're all the same." He relayed how Dumbledore talked about the Greater Good, and philosophy, and how they played cricket wrong. He left out the part about Hermione scratching his back – it had only happened the once, and probably was because Voldemort was scratching his back at the time.

"And you say you have never heard of Gellert, correct?" Lupin was almost unnaturally still.

"Yeah," Harry said. "So what d'ya think it means?

"I think it means that Vol–" Lupin stopped. "That yes, Dumbledore is right, and you should comply, as long as your moral beliefs are not directly compromised."

Harry puffed his chest out. "I figured it all out myself_." For once, without any help from Hermione._

Lupin smiled weakly. "Yes, you did. Now," Lupin pulled at the shackles."What's going to happen to me now?"

_Good question. And the answer to it depended on whether Snape was a good guy or a bad guy._ "Well, Snape said he wanted you. Whatever that means."

"Magnificent," Lupin growled. "Harry, do the Death Eaters often make pets out of their captives?"

That did seem like a bizarre practise. "No – just me. They kill everybody else, but for some reason, they singled me out, and I don't know why."

"It's because you are the Boy-Who-Lived. Don't stress over it," Lupin sighed.

He wasn't. He was just plain 'over' it. What he wasn't over was the stupid fucking draining thing, which slowed his thinking enough to make him forget to ask about it right away! He would ask Lupin for more information about the draining, but didn't want to worry him.

Time passed by so fast. They spent the whole time talking, and not only about bad things. Good things, too. Lupin told Harry a story about Harry's dad, and explained that he and Sirius were in love.

"Some call it unnatural, and they may be right. However, there was never anything _natural_ about me to begin with."

Harry didn't really care either way – to be honest, thinking about it made him a bit uncomfortable, as it made him wonder if the person in the dark had been a man or a woman, if it hadn't been Voldemort. He had never really considered that.

"In fact, Sirius and I were planning on coming to get you," Lupin continued an earlier thread of conversation. "Dumbledore had approved of it. We were just waiting to catch Pettigrew in Trafalgar Square, after what we thought was an attempted mass murder by him." He frowned. "It ended up being a deception to lure us away from you. Anyhow, we were hoping that if we caught him, you could just live with us for good."

Ah, so that had been the terribly wonderful surprise. "Be careful talking about Pettigrew – remember, Voldemort can read minds."

Lupin snorted. "Everyone knows we're trying to kill the rat. They should know. As a matter of fact, is this room soundproof?" At Harry's shrug, Lupin hollered, "you hear that, motherfuckers? We're going to kill Peter Pettigrew!"

Lupin looked at Harry with a satisfied smile. "That should have him hiding in his wardrobe for about a week."

Harry tried to return the smile, but it was hard; he couldn't believe Lupin had said a word like 'motherfuckers', and he couldn't stop worrying about what Voldemort's reaction might be.

It was only minutes later that the heavy silver door swung open, and Snape stormed in.

Harry jumped as the door hit the wall with a _bang!_

Snape extended his wand and pointed it at Lupin.

_He's going to kill him, _Harry realised._ Or transfer him to the meeting room where he'll– oh, God._

"Don't hurt him!" Harry pleaded, wrapping his arms tightly around Lupin's chest. "You can't hurt him!"

"Harry." Lupin's breath tickled Harry as he whispered into his ear. "Move aside. It's okay."

"No, it's not okay!" Harry began to cry. "You just don't know – he's going to _kill you!"_

"I'm doing nothing of the sort, Pet," Snape seemed to taunt them. "I am just torturing him a bit."

If people were just tortured 'a bit' they lost their minds. Seventeen minutes of torture, actually.

"You can't!" He crawled over to Snape, making desperate attempts to get him to lower his wand. "He's Kitten's friend!"

"Close your eyes, Harry," Lupin warned.

"Rather, run along, Pet. I am sure your master wants to see you," Snape said.

Harry looked at Lupin, who smiled faintly. "Go on, Harry – I will hang around the best I can."

In other words, he'd try not to die.

"Sn-Snape?" Harry tugged on Snape's dark robes. "Promise you won't kill him?"

Snape snorted. "Yes, now go."

Harry was only partway down the hall when he discovered that the holding room was not soundproof – he could hear Lupin's screams.

* * *

Voldemort found Harry in his quarters, or rather, Harry found him. He hadn't encountered anyone as he raced through the corridors as quickly as he could on his hands and knees. It would have been, in retrospect, an ideal time to escape, but Harry was not thinking about that.

All he wanted was to save Lupin, to feel comforted, to actually feel assured that everything would be okay.

"Kitten," Voldemort looked up from the book he was all too casually reading. "I thought that you were with the mongrel."

Harry couldn't help but notice that despite Voldemort's words, he hardly seemed surprised to see him.

"Gotta help him!" The way he figured it, Voldemort didn't like anybody but him for some... odd reason. That usually made him feel uncomfortable, but now it was a good thing – if anyone could save Lupin's life, it'd be Voldemort, and maybe he'd want to make Harry happy by calling off the torture.

Voldemort closed his book and leaned forward. "What is wrong, Kitten? You appear distressed."

He didn't bother to hide his distress, that was why. "Snape's going to kill him! Lupin! He needs saved! We've got to save him!"

This desperation and pain was matched only by one event in Harry's past, and that was the end of the Tri-Wizard tournament. It seemed so long ago, though it couldn't have been – Harry still didn't need to shave, after all.

But the feeling inside of him, the terrible adrenaline, mirrored how he felt when Cedric died, making the end of the 1994–1995 school year seem just like yesterday.

"You must slow down," Voldemort ordered. "I cannot understand babble."

Why was he making this so hard? Lupin's life was at stake! He probably wouldn't last the full twenty-five minutes under the Cruciatus since he was a werewolf, and his body was already in such terrible shape. They were losing valuable time!

"Snape came in and started torturing Lupin! Made Kitten go!" There was no time to fight over or avoid using names and pronouns. "You can save him! You can stop him! You can stop him! You have to!"

"I do not _have_ to do anything," Voldemort hissed. "Have you forgotten who I am?"

No, Harry hadn't. That was his point. "You're Kitten's master. Kitten can't stop Snape, but you can! You're the only one!"

"And if I don't stop him?" Voldemort said quietly.

A sob escaped Harry's throat, and he couldn't answer.

Harry felt himself being gathered up into Voldemort's arms, and in a rare moment, did not protest.

"Does Kitten respect Master?"

There were two types of respect. One kind was the kind Harry had for Dumbledore; Dumbledore was good and kind, friendly, funny, and very powerful. He was an excellent role model and took care of children. Harry respected him. The other kind of respect was the kind that Harry had for a train. He had respect for the speed and weight of the trains he had seen in his life, and if one was coming towards him, he'd move out of its way, rather than expecting the train to move and avoid him. It was respect, too. A completely different kind of respect than the kind Harry had for Dumbledore.

The kind of respect he had for Voldemort.

"Yes, Master!" Harry sobbed into Voldemort's thin shoulders. He did not bother to differentiate the types of respect – at that point, he would have given anything for Lupin's safety.

"Calm, Kitten," Voldemort placed Harry on t he carpet. "I will handle it."

He left before Harry could say another word, his long robes trailing behind him.

Time passed like the last of the honey out of the jar. Hours passed by – or it could have been only minutes – nothing changing in the room. The silence made it even worse, for there was no consistent ticking of a clock to mark the seconds. The fire crackled, but without a way to tell time, there was no way to tell if it was consistent.

The normal ways of passing time were out; incessantly counting seemed so menial, chasing and playing with the kitty toys frivolous. He lay, not on his cushion but on the floor, curled into a ball, waiting for Voldemort. Waiting for calm. Waiting for an absolution that seemed would never come.

After an eternity, Voldemort came empty-handed back into the room.

Harry rolled over from his side to his knees in an instant. "Where is he? Is he okay? Did Snape kill him? Did you stop him? Did you hurt Snape?" The last question was asked in both anger and fear. As sure as Dumbledore was of Snape's loyalties, Harry was no longer sure. He had trusted Snape only because Dumbledore said to. He had never seen Snape do anything good at the Death Eater meetings, and knew he hated Lupin...

No matter what, he was more convinced that, regardless of loyalties, Snape was not even a nice man on the _inside. _And as much as Harry wanted him to hurt as much as he and Lupin did, he didn't want Voldemort to hurt him, either.

"The mongrel is alive." Voldemort walked over and ran his fingers through Harry's hair. "Severus has no intentions of killing him."

Somehow, that didn't sound like a good thing. "What's that mean? He's just gonna torture him _forever?"_

Voldemort chuckled. "What's this? Not even a 'thank you' to your master?"

_Ooops. _Harry bit his lip, and sat back on his heels. "Thank you, Master," he mumbled, staring at his knees.

"What is it, Kitten? I thought you would be happy to see your mongrel friend."

Yes, Harry was glad to be able to see and talk to Lupin, but he didn't like knowing Lupin was stuck like he was now, maybe even worse.

Clearly, Voldemort didn't understand sadness and empathy... basic human emotions.

"Do you know what I think Kitten needs?" Voldemort strode over to the door Harry had long assumed led to a toilet.

"A mercy killing?" Harry muttered into his arm, not quite sure if he answered with that because he thought that was what Voldemort thought he needed, or if it was what he half-heartedly wanted. Maybe both.

Voldemort ignored him. "Come – I have a surprise for my kitten."

Harry looked at Voldemort doubtfully. For some reason, he was not too eager to find out what Voldemort's surprise was. Voldemort was the worst supriser ever – every one of his surprises Harry either regretted or almost regretted finding out about.

He was tempted to ask if it was a _good_ surprise, as Voldemort had not specified that it was, but he had verbally doubted him enough that day – he didn't want to anger him. He wasn't stupid enough to do that.

He, at Voldemort's nod of encouragement, began to crawl into the room.

It was a bathroom, unlike any one he had seen before. The closest thing to it, he supposed, had been the prefect's bathroom he had discovered last year. But even that was nothing compared to this.

The bathroom was much bigger than the prefect's bathroom at Hogwarts. It was tiled – even the walls were shiny black tile. Hanging from the ceiling was a luxurious candlelight chandelier, massive enough to crush someone who stood under it if it fell.

A marble sink had a counter big enough to lie on, and the toilet was sparkling. Harry's kitty box, he couldn't help but note, sat next to the toilet.

_So that's where Voldemort conjures it from._

The obvious eye catcher of the room was the large stained glass window, as long as the large pool-like tub, and as tall as the ceiling. As far as a window went, it let little natural sunlight in. It featured a large gold and green snake, curled up. Harry supposed it was probably wrapped around its victim, choking it, though there was no sign of it in the actual window.

The tub was already filled with water and bubbles. Pink bubbles floated from the surface of the water to pop when hitting the ceiling.

_A bath. No doubt that was what Voldemort thought Harry needed. And he was probably right; though Voldemort used cleaning charms on Harry often, nothing ever replaced actual warm water, soap, suds, and most importantly, bubbles._

Harry shrieked, jumping back as a huge snake slithered out from underneath the water, its massive body nearly running Harry over in its mad dash to Voldemort.

He covered his eyes, lest the snake look at him. The only snake he had ever seen that big was a basilisk, and they were very dangerous.

A snake lived in Voldemort's bathroom? Right next to where Harry lived and slept? He knew he was acting like a little girl, but being that close to a dangerous snake made him sick.

"Nagini, what have I sssaid about making watery messssesss of the porcelain room?" Voldemort scolded. "Ssstop using pink bubblessss when you sswim – it leavesss a terrible sstain on the floor."

Harry peeked out between his fingers, watching Voldemort and the snake.

"Yesss, Massster." Nagini curled around Voldemort, not enough to suffocate him, unfortunately. "Iss this Pet?"

"Yesss, Nagini," Voldemort chuckled. "Pet, open your eyesss. Nagini isss not the breed you think she isss."

Harry let his hands off his eyes. "What's that?" He asked, kind of stupidly. It was a snake named Nagini, obviously.

"Ssspeak the language of the sssnakes, Pet," Voldemort reprimanded. "It isss rude to sspeak in a language when one pressent cannot undersstand."

Parseltongue. Harry had almost forgotten about the snake language that he accidentally spoke. The language he spoke naturally, the same as Voldemort – it was a very rare ability to naturally speak, and understand. It seemed creepily fitting, destined. Too fitting – that was why it was creepy.

Harry focussed on the snake, trying to channel his innate snake-something. "What isss that?"

"That isss Nagini. She isss also my Pet." Voldemort stroked Nagini's head. "Not for you to worry – she doesss not replace Pet."

Harry wasn't worried about that.

"Nagini, go visit Vincent – he hass your meal, I believe." Voldemort turned to Harry as Nagini slithered out. "Not to worry – it'sss not the beast."

Harry gaped. The snake ate people? The fact that she would not be eating Lupin was hardly comforting – someone would still be eaten. Was that what Voldemort did with all the dead bodies of Muggles and Muggleborns? Harry supposed it was better for them than being transfigured into a bone and put into Hagrid's garden like Barty Crouch Sr., but it was still terrible. It made him sick.

"Get in, Kitten," Voldemort broke off the Parseltongue as Nagini slithered out. "Careful – it is deep."

It sounded stupid, but Harry didn't want to get in the same bath water as Nagini – there were probably big scales floating around the water. There was also something else.

He looked over at Voldemort. "Kitten won't drown itself. You don't have to stay."

Voldemort emptied the tub with his wand, turned various taps so that it filled with steaming water and sweet smelling golden bubbles. "Nonsense. You will not want to be alone at a time like this. Kitten is upset, is it not? People do not like to be alone when upset."

That was not strictly true; some people liked to be alone when upset and some people didn't. Hermione liked company when she was sad, like when her grandmother died, but Harry liked to be alone. He was used to being alone. He didn't like people telling him to cheer up – he liked to stew in his problems by himself. It helped him get over them.

But maybe Voldemort didn't know that. Maybe he thought _everyone_ wanted to be comforted. At the very least, he had grouped Harry with people, which was a good sign.

Harry edged his way into the steaming water, water that was almost too hot for him. His muscles immediately relaxed, the tension and the stress from the past several months melting completely away.

Almost.

Voldemort shrugged off his block robes, revealing a skeletal, pale torso.

"Oh, shit!" Harry ducked in the tub, covering his eyes with his hands. That was the last thing he had ever wanted to see. Harry's eyes would never be the same after that – the Death Eaters would have to take away another Muggleborn's eyesight for him, but even that wasn't guaranteed to fix the damage.

The sight had probably burned a hole in his brain.

He peeked out of his fingers, watching Voldemort lay his robes out over a chair. The wizard's skin was just as pale, scaly, and hairless as his head. Every man, even young ones like Harry, had hair on their arms and legs, even if it was just a tiny bit. But Voldemort had none. From the back end, Harry couldn't see much, but as far as guys went, Voldemort was most ugly.

"You're not getting in the tub with Kitten, are you?" Taking a bath with someone, wasn't that sort of sexual? When two adults did, surely it was. After all, two kids stopped bathing together when they got old for a reason.

Harry wasn't dirty. He didn't want a bath with Voldemort.

Voldemort laughed, turning around, revealing a body that was the very definition of 'skin and bones'. His bones jutted out all over. His thighs were so thin they clearly defined his abdomen and surrounding area. The regeneration potion Voldemort had used had not been kind 'down there' at all – flaccid, his pens was smaller than Harry's, and Harry being what he had heard called a 'late bloomer', that was saying something.

"Well, Kitten seems to have its attention on one thing, and one thing only." Voldemort laughed.

Harry flushed, letting the water cover him to his shoulders. "Want to take a bath by myself."

"But people like to take baths with people," Voldemort persisted, coming over to the edge of the bath.

_Yeah, you're getting in no matter what, aren't you? Harry moved quickly to the other end of the tub. _"Yeah, well, I'm Kitten, remember? Kittens don't like baths."

Voldemort frowned. "Very true. However, Kittens do not usually take baths at all, so it does seem we can make exceptions to the rules." He slid into the tub.

Harry's insides turned. It wasn't because Voldemort was naked, because while snake skin was gross, it wasn't like he was touching him or anything. It wasn't the fact that he was sharing a bath with Voldemort, because like him or not, Harry was used to the man.

He didn't know what it was.

"Ah," Voldemort sighed, visibly relaxing. "Do you feel calmer?"

How could Harry feel _calmer? _Lupin was kidnapped, and Harry was in a bath with a naked man! How could he be calm?

"Yes, Master," Harry grunted, letting Voldemort hear what he wanted to hear. "Clean – get out now?"

"Breathe, Kitten," Voldemort instructed. "Lay back and close your eyes."

Harry didn't want to close his eyes. As sleepy as the draining made him, closing his eyes in the bath was foolish. He might run into a snake, or wake up being touched. Or drown. As miserable as he was, he didn't want to die.

"Kitten," Voldemort chuckled, "no harm will come to you in the bath. I promise. Come here."

Harry let go of the edge of the tub, but didn't go over to Voldemort. "Um, have to?"

"Unless you would like to find yourself falling asleep and drowning..." Voldemort said. "Yes, Kitten. Come here."

Harry sighed, hating having no choice in the matter. He paddled over to Voldemort, who reached out and took hold of him once he got close enough.

"I do not like my kitten looking so depressed." Voldemort laid Harry back against his chest. "Close your eyes. Breathe. Relax. That mongrel is alive, everyone is safe. Kitten is fine – allow yourself to relax."

Harry never thought he'd be doing yoga with Voldemort. It wasn't very relaxing – he tried to take a deep breath, but it made tears begin to silently fall.

"Hush, you are fine." Voldemort wiped Harry's tears away with water.

Yes, Harry was fine. He wasn't hungry, he wasn't dying. He wasn't in bad shape at all. But nothing _else _was fine – everything was messed up, Lupin was being tortured, Snape was bad, and being drained was bad.

"You are overtired from the draining, still," Voldemort said. "You are being overly dramatic."

Harry supposed that was true, to an extent. Boys didn't cry – he didn't even think kittens could cry. He cried when he was very tired and upset. Now he was definitely both. He couldn't relax. He couldn't relax until he understood everything.

"You – Master – can read my mind," Harry reaffirmed, lazily piling bubbles over his chest.

"Yes," Voldemort said, raking his fingers through Harry's hair. "As I have been saying for days."

Voldemort had been saying that for longer than days. Weeks, months – Harry had forgotten to ask Lupin for the real date.

"And draining doesn't take away magic for good?" Were Harry ever rendered a squib, he didn't know what he'd do. He didn't know how he'd live without magic now. He supposed he could, but he would probably always feel weird around his friends. He didn't have any Muggle friends.

"Did I say it did? It comes back – when it does, we shall drain you again."

Again and again. "Why?" the thought occurred to Harry for the first time. Why did Voldemort want to drain him?

"Multiple reasons, Kitten. It is none of your concern."

How was it _not _Harry's concern? It was his magic!

"The substance will be put into various potions to enable Kitten's master," Voldemort said. "As you are mine, I may take whatever liberties I please with your magic. In this environment, it is dangerous for Kitten to wield a wand. By eliminating its magic, I have eliminated the risk."

What about Voldemort's house made Harry having magic dangerous? Harry had had magic his whole life, and it had never endangered him in the slightest. Well, mostly.

Voldemort pressed lightly on Harry's head, bringing it to nestle in the cold bony crook of his neck. One would think that would be quite uncomfortable, but it wasn't – Harry actually felt quite comfortable.

Harry watched as the bubbles drifted around them, moving from the top of Voldemort's purple nipple, then over to Harry's toe. He breathed in the warm honeysuckle scent of the bubbles, and let his muscles relax, until he fell asleep.

**Coming up next in **_**Disorder...**_**  
Chapter XI: Despair**


	11. Despair

**Disclaimer: I do not own "Harry Potter" or the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.**

**Warnings: **_This chapter contains non-con (rape). All warnings from the first chapter apply._

**Chapter XI: Despair**

* * *

Lupin was pulled by a rope around his neck not because Severus derived pleasure from it or because it showed Lupin his place, but out of necessity. The bottoms of his feet had been burned so badly in Bellatrix's unsupervised torturing that it was beyond unreasonable to expect the werewolf to walk – the flesh had likely been burnt to the bone.

He could not say that Lupin was not a marvel, however. How the man managed to stay conscious through such abuse was beyond him. Severus knew that the man was skilled in Occlumency, and he knew from experience that employing the skill could help to dissociate from pain, but not to that degree. He would never admit it – was far too proud to admit it – but he envied the skill with which Lupin controlled himself so admirably.

Severus had told the Dark Lord the truth – that in an attempt to keep his cover with the Order of the Phoenix, he took off his mask to help Lupin. Lupin touching the mark had been poor timing on Severus' part, poor timing on the werewolf's part. He had also made out to the Dark Lord that he was pleased by this turn of events, as it was public knowledge that he despised Lupin.

Severus had been racking his brain for an excuse to let the werewolf live. Though Severus earnestly and passionately disliked the man, just as he did Potter, he did not wish him dead. The werewolf was a valuable member of the Order, as he was the only one capable of controlling Black. Aside from that, he was a _life _– a poor excuse for one, but a life just the same.

As it had turned out, however, he hadn't needed an excuse. The Dark Lord saw Lupin as leverage, as a way to ensure Potter's cooperation. He had first suggested they keep Lupin in the room they did all of the other prisoners, but Severus had pleaded to 'keep' him as the Dark Lord did his pet. The Dark Lord had seen it as a harmless 'monkey see, monkey do', and knowing Severus' severe dislike for Lupin, made him promise not to permanently harm the werewolf, or kill him.

It was a promise that was readily made.

Severus had a reason to hate Lupin. Severus trusted no one, but certainly not Lupin. Lupin had, admittedly, never poked fun at him to his face as an adolescent, and had (secretly) tried to befriend him more than once. However, he had also never stopped those who had taunted him – and he had been a _prefect_. What made it worse was that Lupin could have stopped it with a word, because his goddamned boyfriend was the ringleader.

Yes, it had been many years ago, but Lupin had been sixteen. That was plenty old enough to reflect what his personality was now. People consistently made the mistake of assuming people changed – they did not. Especially in a mere seventeen years. Lupin had undeniably matured since leaving school in 1978, but _changed _was a strong word to use. Severus had not _changed _since he was six years old, the first day he had laid eyes on Lily Evans. Perhaps that was a flaw, but point aside.

The Order of the Phoenix was undoubtedly frantic. Black had no doubt gone round the twist, and Moody was surely ready to kill Severus. His life would be endangered by showing up to an Order meeting, quite ironically. It was quite a good thing he would not be divulging all the terrible things he did to Lupin, or he would find his head mounted on the walls of Grimmauld Place with the house-elves'.

Severus resided at the Dark Lord's headquarters most nights. He, like everyone else with the Dark Mark, was afforded modest quarters. Though one would think Severus would be comfortable in these rooms, as opposed to being in the drafty Slytherin head's quarters, he wasn't. At Hogwarts, students bothered him in the night, but he was safe, and could sleep soundly. Here, he was still bothered, only by killers. Living amongst a group of killers hardly let you sleep soundly.

It was just two rooms, a bedroom and a bathroom. The bedroom was decent in size, but the bathroom was hardly large enough to turn around in. Severus wasn't looking forward to sharing them with Lupin, but then again, he would not have looked forward to sharing even the largest of quarters with Lupin.

He kicked Lupin rather hard in his rear, causing Lupin to land inside Severus' quarters.

"Oh, does it hurt?" Severus mocked, shutting the door to his quarters behind them. "I thought you would be used to pain there. Aren't you taking it up the bum from Black?"

"Severus," Lupin pleaded. "Please. I really cannot take that right–"

Severus did not take pleasure in physical or sexual torture. He thoroughly enjoyed verbally ridiculing and bullying, and found it entertaining to knock another's self-esteem down a few notches; however, he was finding ridiculing Lupin not gratifying in the slightest. There was little fun in berating someone lying beaten on your floor in naught but their trousers.

Severus cut Lupin off with a harsh laugh. "Do you think I care what you can take right now?

Lupin's eyes were troubled. "I know we're not friends, but there is–"

Severus had a feeling he knew what Lupin was going to say, and whole-heartedly disagreed. There was every reason in the world for Severus to act as he was – the Dark Lord would expect a good show from Severus' memories.

"_**Scindrus**_!" He pointed his wand at Lupin.

Lupin's eyes widened in shock for a moment before he let out a terrible scream.

Severus walked around him as his skin started to splinter. "Oh, but I thought you were not susceptible to pain. It was surely the impression we were being given _– Finite Incantatem_!"

A healing spell repaired the painful slices all over Lupin's body. Severus would have to be careful to use spells that did not cause loss of blood, or he could very well accidentally kill.

"Sever–" Lupin tried.

"_Crucio_!" When the Cruciatus was used for twelve minutes without reprieve, permanent damage could be done to the muscles. The beauty of the curse was that after the twelve minutes could body could recover enough in only a few hours to undergo it again.

Ten minutes may not seem like a lot of time to most, but Severus could testify that it seemed like an eternity to those under the Cruciatus. It was why Severus never tortured anyone with it for more than nine minutes – it was a sad day when you created a torturing rule of thumb.

Lupin did not cry out while he was being tortured. The fact that he writhed in silence, instead of screaming, was nerve-wracking.

Severus removed the curse after only three minutes.

He used various methods of torture on Lupin in the following hours, giving the werewolf little reprieve in between. He shouted terrible things at him, ensuring he was as miserable as possible. He made sure Lupin knew all the reasons everyone hated him, why they all wanted and preferred him dead. Why he was better off dead.

The adrenaline that ran through one when torturing another was incredible. He did not like torturing people, but the adrenaline... that was why some people were addicted to it, no doubt. The adrenaline gave him tremendous energy, causing him to go to an extreme that he mightn't have otherwise.

He swallowed the potion, grimacing as it went down. He did not grimace at the taste, as it actually tasted of strawberries, but at what drinking it meant.

The effect was immediate. The blood flow increased, flowing towards his groin.

He looked down at Lupin, who was lying in a crumpled heap in front of the hearth. The werewolf's skin was an ashen grey colour, making the raised scars on his body stand out. He had blood trickling out of the corner of one eye, and his nose. Two teeth lay on the floor, broken and chipped.

_Do not do it, Severus. You will never be able to forgive yourself._

Severus was, along with, he assumed, most of the population, heterosexual. He found few things more unattractive than the male anatomy. He could not see why anyone would want to have sex with a man, when they could have it with a woman. He liked the curves women had; curves that men lacked. He liked the softness of a woman's skin, not the hairy roughness of a man's. He found Lupin, specifically, unattractive, but this act was not about sexual gratification – it was about torture.

He pointed his wand, uttering a spell that was loathed in intimate circumstances. What was less romantic than having your clothes simply disappear on you? It worked well when someone was in a rush, but Severus rarely was. He preferred to take his time in consensual sexual encounters.

There was nothing consensual about this encounter however, as Severus suspected he wanted it even less than Lupin did.

Lupin gave no reaction to the removal of his trousers, likely too weak to care, but he did start when Severus began to remove his own robes.

"No," Lupin whimpered, trying to crawl away in vain, as he was too weak to move. "No."

"Shut it, werewolf," Severus growled, attempting to sound as cruel as possible with his tone. He strode over to the werewolf, and with a few quick second-year spells, had him on his hands and knees, immobilised.

He had to force himself to think of Lupin as strictly 'the werewolf' during this act. Not only would it increase the authentic appearance of the attack, but it was the only way he could go through with it.

"No." Lupin began to cry, tears trickling. It occurred to Severus that he had never seen the werewolf cry before. "No, please, Severus. Please."

Severus forced himself to ignore him, positioning his cock at Lupin's arse. He could only hope Lupin did not have any of the gay diseases, but then again, Lupin was a gay disease.

"Lubricant," the werewolf said in between sobs. "Please use– the incantation is–"

Severus was not about to use lubricant. As far as he knew, that eased discomfort for the one being penetrated. It was a conflict of interest, in this case, to use lubricant.

He plunged into Lupin, schooling his expression to not wince as Lupin cried out. He did not ease into the wolf, but _impaled _him.

The tightness and dryness of Lupin's arse was unbelievable. The tightness might have felt good if the situation were consensual and the area moist, but neither was so. Lupin felt tighter than any woman Severus had ever been with, but he had never had anal sex before. He had always found the entire practise barbaric, and after this, that opinion would likely never change.

He began with quick, short thrusts, hoping to climax quickly and get the nightmare over with. He felt a slight burn on the shaft of his penis, and wondered if it was supposed to hurt for the penetrator. He knew so very little about sexual intimacy between men.

Lupin's cries were clearly induced by the pain, not any sort of pleasure. It was hard to relax and orgasm when you knew that you were causing that.

Finally, he ejaculated. It took him a few moments to stand up after removing himself from Lupin. He could not tell if he was shaking because of the orgasm or because of what he had done, but he assumed the latter.

The semen draining out of Lupin was not at all what Severus had expected. He expected a translucent white, not... pink. A translucent pink.

_Blood. You have torn him._

Severus ignored the sobbing werewolf except to release him from his bindings, and went into the small bathroom to clean up.

Once the door was shut securely behind him, silencing spells in place, he broke down.

It was twenty more minutes before he reappeared in his bedroom. He had spent the first ten crying and screaming until his throat was raw. It had taken another ten to clean up and to erase any sign of tears. Severus was a man, a strong man; tears were a terrible weakness.

Lupin was crumpled on the floor, appearing unmoving from a distance. It was not until Severus got closer than he could see the very slight shaking of the werewolf's back, indicating that he was sobbing.

_Swallow your pride, Severus. You must. You needn't like Lupin, but he is your ally. You have hurt enough people. Leastways, he should know why. He is a skilled Occlumens._

Severus spelled the trousers back on Lupin, and knelt on the floor, his legs still shaky from the upset. "Lupin," he said softly, in what he hoped was a comforting voice. He did not _do _comforting.

Either Lupin was ignoring him or unable to hear him through the sobs, so Severus tried again. "Lupin, you are quite skilled in Occlumency, so much so that Dumbledore is confident that you could even block the Dark Lord."

"Yes," Lupin whimpered after several moment's hesitation.

"Then you would be able to block all that I'm about to say to you from him?" Severus knew Lupin had the self-confidence of a kicked puppy, so if he believed he could block thoughts and memories from the Dark Lord, he most certainly could do it well.

Lupin's voice broke. "Yes."

Severus Snape did two things he rarely did; he let his guard down, and he apologised.

"I am sorry, Lupin." He did not begin to cry. Guard down or not, he was still strong. "I did not want to do any of it. I had to."

Lupin's sobbing only amplified; apparently, Severus made very poor apologies.

"The Dark Lord will want to know what we have been doing, or rather, what I have been doing to you," Severus explained. "Our memories of events need to be exactly the same. Coming up with a plan, a story, is not enough. They need to mirror each other realistically. The only way to convince him that I mercilessly tortured you is to have done it."

His words did nothing to ease Lupin's sobs. He knew better than most that 'sorry' rarely fixed anything.

"_Episkey_. Hold still, Lupin – do you want your feet to be permanently damaged? No? Lie still."

Severus had to be selective about the injuries he healed. Obviously, there was damage to the feet and rectum that Severus could not risk being permanent. There was no need to replenish the blood, as it would replenish naturally within hours. All of the other cuts and bruises could be left – they were impossible to discern from the ones he had already had.

"Be careful," Lupin hoarsely whispered as Severus began cleaning the bedroom. "Lycanthropy can be spread through blood."

He was all too aware of that. Werewolves and lycanthropy were amongst his greatest fears.

"Thank you, Lupin." Severus was uncharacteristically kind. "I will take care."

Lupin did not respond for quite some time, as he weaned himself off his sobs. Severus was not a compassionate man, and was very impatient; more than once, he wanted to snap at Lupin for his annoying sobs, but he forced himself not to.

Finally, however, Lupin spoke again. "Have you a plan?"

"No, however, I am sure the good old Order of the Phoenix does. Not that it will work, mind you."

From somewhere, Lupin found the strength to snort. "If you have a plan to rescue Harry on your own, do not let me interfere with it."

Severus could not resist a comment. "Ah, Lupin. Always the martyr."

"I am old. I am not worth the risk."

"Lupin, you're thirty-five."

Lupin looked up at Severus with tired eyes. "They say age is just a number. Internally, I have the body of a sixty-five-year-old man. The only reason I manage to not cry out during curses is because of my monthly changes – I am used to pain."

Severus hated pity parties. He even hated his own, which he had in private quite often. "Nonsense. I have seen you dodge curses faster than any sixty-five-year-old I've met. Stop seeking compliments. It's unattractive."

Werewolf blood was notoriously hard to clean from carpet. He would have to call in a house-elf, later.

"Next time you encounter the Dark Lord, keep only the torture in your mind, not my kindness. If you do not, it will only mean death for the both of us." Severus sat down on the floor next to Lupin's crumpled form. "I did this for you."

That did not comfort Lupin at all, judging by his facial expression. And why should it? There was never supposed to be a good excuse for rape and torture. There never had been, before the Dark Lord. You knew the world you lived in was corrupt when you had to rape and torture to achieve a better world.

Lupin struggled to sit upright, but did not quite get there. The pain of his arse was no doubt too much to bear. Not physically, but emotionaly. The soreness would serve as a reminder of the unwanted intrusion.

"Severus, Harry first. It's all I ask. And if you cannot do it for me, he's Lily's son. For her."

It was why Severus did everything he had done since her death. "I promise."

Lupin's voice broke. "And Sirius... please don't tell him what happened. I don't want him to think of me like this, or for him to–" the werewolf re-launched his uncontrollable sobs and, surprisingly, threw himself into Severus' arms.

Severus had little experienced in consoling the weeping, or being comforting. He could only mimic what he had seen others do from time to time, and pat Lupin's back. The motion felt awkward, that feeling increased by the fact that Lupin's back was bare.

However, Lupin seemed to take comfort in his rapist's actions. He gripped Severus' robes tighter as he continued to sob.

Lupin was not someone Severus saw as weak. Loyal to a flaw, too easily swayed by his people-pleasing attitude, a poof, with an annoying habit of humming big band music when he thought no one could hear. But he was not weak – he was skilled in duelling, and had survived intense and prolonged torture without giving up Order secrets. None of that was to imply that Severus liked or even respected Lupin. They were merely fact.

To have a man of that strength sobbing in his arms infuriated Severus, and he vowed again, stronger than he ever had before, to make sure the Dark Lord went down.

For the last time.

**Coming up next in **_**Disorder**_**...  
**_**Chapter XII: Decisions**_


	12. Decisions

**Disclaimer: I do not own "Harry Potter" or the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.**

**Chapter XII: Decisions**

* * *

"Well done, Kitten," Voldemort preened, reaching down to pet Harry's head.

Harry allowed the touch. He used the box in the bathroom now. He was not allowed to use the bath, shower, bidet, toilet, or sink without permission, but it was a step in a more humane direction, and that made him happy.

He peered around Voldemort, hoping to see a toy behind Voldemort's back. He often got one as a reward for various tasks. Voldemort had mentioned a toy the other day that had a spring. A spring would be perfect for the alarm Harry wanted to set up over the door.

"It is unreasonable to expect a treat every day," Voldemort said.

Harry frowned. He didn't want just _any_ stupid kitty toy, he wanted one to help build an alarm. What frustrated him was that Voldemort knew that, because he could read his mind. Was that why he was not giving him the spring? Why would Voldemort care if Harry put an alarm over the door? It wouldn't make any difference to _him_.

It made every difference for Harry. While his magic was weak, he slept a lot. Sometimes, he knew, for hours on end. But he didn't want to be sleeping when Voldemort was in the room. He trusted the Dark wizard enough while he was awake – then he could predict his actions and at least attempt to manoeuvre around them. But while he was asleep, he had no such ability. Asleep, he could not avoid being touched, or hit with the Cruciatus.

He'd rather take a bath with Voldemort than be asleep around him.

"Kitten," Voldemort began as they went into the dining room to consume their breakfast, "do you know how long it has been since you last saw the sun?"

He couldn't remember. How he wished he had stopped and savoured the moment. He had taken it for granted. "No, Master. Six months?"

"Three weeks. Do you not remember that walk we went on?"

Harry didn't. He stared into his bowl of shredded fish, trying to remember. He would remember being outside, surely. It would have been the ideal time for escape. Of course he would remember if he had been outdoors... wouldn't he? Maybe Voldemort was messing with him again. Maybe Harry was losing his mind.

"Of course you do." Voldemort took a bite of porridge – how Harry missed eating porridge. "It rained terribly afterwards."

_Rain_. He would have remembered rain. Clean pure rain to wash everything off his body that was bad or impure.

"Don't remember." Harry picked at his food.

"You just said that you did a moment ago." Voldemort held his wand to Harry's forehead, to take the temperature. "Kitten, are you feeling well?"

Harry had not said he remembered anything... had he? He was pretty sure he hadn't. "Yes, Master. Perhaps it's all the mercury in the fish. Perhaps we should try custard."

Voldemort shook his head. "Kitten worries me. Perhaps it should see a mind healer."

Harry did not need a shrink. Though, if he ever got away from Voldemort, it would be a wise thing to consider. "Apologies. Days and nights, nights and days. Gets confused."

Voldemort let it drop. It was only after they had finished did he change the subject. "Would you like to see the sun today?"

Had nearly anyone else asked that question, Harry might have said, 'A thousand times, "Yes!"', but this was Voldemort. He had to be cautious. "Why? Son of what?"

"_The_ sun, Kitten. The sun in the sky? Surely you have not forgotten of its existence."

Some days, he wondered if he was just making stuff up. Was the sky really blue, or only in his imagination? Hogwarts was real, but some of the people... were they only in his dreams?

"Remember the sun," Harry said defensively. "It's yellow. If you look at it too long, you go blind."

"Correct, so if we go out to see it, will it marvel at it and require its eyes to be repaired again?" Voldemort frowned.

Harry would never take someone else's eyesight again if he could help it. "Promise not to."

* * *

Lupin spent his days curled on the rug, staring at the fire. He did not speak to Severus, and Severus did not speak to him. Though it was not an awkward silence, it was hardly companionable.

"A house-elf should bring by roast chicken and potatoes in a bit." Severus finally broke the silence on Lupin's third day in his quarters. He shrugged on a black coat. "The Dark Lord may require it to report to him at some point in time, so play the part."

"How do you know Voldemort is not spying on us right now?" Lupin asked dully, his eyes not straying from the fire.

He knew because he checked for surveillance spells often. The Dark Lord trusted, as well as he could trust, those with the Dark Mark. He would not have marked them, otherwise. "I just do. I am going to meet up with the Dark Lord and _Pet_ in the courtyard. Should there be a mortal emergency, I recommend punching the door and screaming, although many might ignore you, as that is a common occurrence. The Floo is warded. Anti-Apparition wards are in effect for most of the building.

Lupin looked up, finally, with interest. "_Most_ of the building?"

"All of the building, as far as mere mortals are concerned," Severus answered. "The Dark Lord is the only one who can truly Apparate in this place. The Dark Mark enables his Death Eaters to Apparate to him if he wishes it."

Lupin sighed, turning back to the fire. "So I suppose my species has been accounted for in the wards?"

That had been one of the first things Severus had considered. "Yes. Fenrir Greyback meets here occasionally with his pack."

"Wonderful." Lupin hardly sounded like he meant it.

Severus paused, his hand on the doorknob. "I will tell Pet you are thinking of him."

"Don't call him that."

"Call who what?"

"You know. His name is Harry."

Severus gritted his teeth. "I've my suspicions of there being a private trace of the name. Surely you have heard the Muggle phrase 'better safe than sorry'?"

"I call him by his name, and I'm not dead yet," Lupin reasoned.

"Because everyone knows you call him by that name, and that will never change. And 'yet' is the key word," Severus said. "Goodbye, Lupin – I am leaving now."

"Wait," Lupin said, suddenly. "Wasn't there an Order meeting last night?"

Yes, there had been, but Severus had not attended. He had been advised not to by Dumbledore, who had offered to explain the situation with Lupin for him, so that Severus could safely show his face among them again.

_Another miserable day._

"Yes, but I thought it wise not to attend. Dumbledore has been made aware of the Dark Lord planting manipulative dreams in Pet's mind. I am going to the next meeting, however."

"Oh." Lupin frowned. "I suppose it would be asking too much for you to speak to Sirius about something for me?"

"I suppose you're right." Severus left the werewolf to contemplate his small chance of survival here without him.

Convincing the Dark Lord that he enjoyed getting back at Lupin after years of pain had not been difficult. It was a stretch for Severus to say he _enjoyed_ seeing Lupin in pain, but saying he did not derive a warped satisfaction from seeing his childhood nemesis bullied would also be. He had expected to feel avenged after seeing Lupin broken and bleeding, but he hadn't. It made him angry.

Not at Lupin, surprisingly enough. Not at James Potter, Sirius Black, or at Peter Pettigrew. Himself. What kind of sick fuck felt avenged by seeing a relatively innocent person in pain, or wanted to feel avenged by seeing it? If the Dark Lord was in pain or dying, Severus understood rejoicing or feeling satisfaction. But a childhood enemy? That was beyond petulant. It was _disgusting_.

Severus was disgusting.

He walked past the door to the Dark Lord's chambers and shuddered. Who knew what types of torture Potter was suffering at the Dark Lord's hands. Severus had incessantly tortured, and raped Lupin. That was terrible, but at least Severus had had a gram of compassion. He had, despite hating Lupin, only done it to save their lives. It was not as if he would have done it in any other situation. If he was capable of doing that in any other situation, he would have done it already.

He had been gentler with Lupin than the Dark Lord surely was with his pet. By quite a margin.

Severus' touch allowed a sturdy door to unlock, leading him to an outdoor courtyard. It was not an overly large courtyard, and existed mainly as a place for Nagini, but Severus was grateful for its existence. The white halls indoors drove him mad.

The garden was green. The grass grew bright green out of the earth. Plants bordered the towering walls, leading to escape, though none of them blossomed – the Dark Lord apparently hated flowers.

The Dark Lord was not there yet, so Severus sat on a ledge beside a tree to wait for him. He did not know why the Dark Lord had chosen for Severus to report to him in the courtyard, but he was glad that, at least, Potter would be there. He wanted Potter to stay convinced that he was on the Dark Lord's side, and yet trust him as he seemed to trust the Dark Lord. It would be crucial for Potter's escape, and it was only something time spent together could create.

_Potter's escape. Pet's Recue. The Capture Of Harry Potter, Volume Two. _It was all Severus thought of. It was all the Order of the Phoenix tried to accomplish, but it was something that none of them were in the position to do. They were not inside. They did not have any real comprehension of evil. They did not understand how the Dark Lord thought and manoeuvred. They were Aurors and Gryffindors, types of people who sought attention. They were not the types of people to be able to use stealth, to sneak in and out without notice.

_Lupin may be._ And perhaps that was true, to an extent. Lupin was a werewolf – he was evil personified. He was inside the Dark Lord's headquarters. He was the type to shrink into the background and say little.

"Say little," Severus scoffed. "If that is not true, then I do not know what is."

"What was that, Severus?" said a voice from behind.

Severus jumped up and bowed to the Dark Lord. The wizard had an unnerving ability to Apparate silently. How he kept Potter quiet was beyond him, however – he had a tendency to baulk and whine loudly when he knew Severus was around.

Potter was there, leashed and sitting like the little pet he was rapidly becoming. It was both a blessing and a curse.

"Hello, Pet," Severus greeted him, and was surprised at the relief he felt at seeing Potter's eyes narrow. Potter hated him. That was good. The Dark Lord had not managed to convince him that torture was moral, and so the world had hope.

"Pet, return Severus' greeting," the Dark Lord ordered.

Potter did not hesitate. "Hallo, sir."

"Sir?" The Dark Lord smiled in amusement.

"Sir Snape," Potter said quickly, as if he were correcting himself.

"Have I been knighted? I can live with that, I suppose." Severus only sat back down once the Dark Lord had taken his seat.

Potter did not look well. While the boy had never been tan, he was now white as a sheet. While the boy had never been tall or of a normal weight, he had not grown since his capture, and had most certainly lost weight – his bones jutted out painfully. The regular loss of the Veneficus at such a pivotal time in Potter's development would most certainly keep him small. That was not going to help him destroy the Dark Lord in the future.

"Pet, go play. Severus and I are going to have a conversation." The Dark Lord patted Potter's head – he didn't even flinch.

"Yes, Master." Potter's leash disappeared. He turned around and began to crawl through the grass, no doubt looking for gnomes to play with.

Severus tried not to look too obviously at the area presented. Potter's anus seemed fine from that distance and angle; there was no obvious redness or tenderness in that area. Severus was too far away to see fissures or anything else rough penetration would have caused.

That, however, did not mean Pet had not been raped. The Dark Lord could have been gentle, or simply healed the injuries. How Severus wished he was at liberty to examine Potter's mind! It would help him know what types of therapy he would need in the future.

"Do you see something interesting in my pet?" The Dark Lord's red eyes were intent on Severus.

"You take very good care of it, my Lord," Severus said. "I was admiring its health."

The Dark Lord seemed satisfied with that answer. "I understand that the relationship you have with your beast is quite different than the one I have with Pet."

It wasn't, really. The Dark Lord was incapable of feeling love, and Severus strongly disliked Lupin.

"The full moon is quickly approaching," Severus said. "Would I be able to put the beast in the dungeons that night?"

"I will make sure all the prisoners I have uses for have fulfilled their uses by the full moon." The Dark Lord nodded. "I was thinking of keeping some Muggleborns alive as werewolves. They would need to be bitten, of course – could your beast do it?"

_Of course he could. He almost bit me once._ "Yes, but only in wolf form. In human form, they cannot fully turn a person."

Severus continued watching Potter as the Dark Lord reiterated his plans and expectations. Potter paid them very little mind, only looking back at them occasionally, as if afraid they would disappear and leave him.

Were Severus able to invade his mind, he would be able to know what pains Potter had endured, but more importantly, give him comfort. Thoughts and dreams could not be put into a person's mind through Legilimency, but a strong Legilimens could plant emotions easily. Severus suspected the Dark Lord did that often to Potter, but not to his benefit.

He was quite sure the Dark Lord used Legilimency on Potter often. The dreams Lupin had described Potter having had were no doubt crafted and planted through a Pensieve, but Legilimency could be used for other things. It was why Severus didn't dare use it on the Dark Lord's pet at all. The Dark Lord would no doubt be able to sense that another person had been there. He would be able to see it.

Then Severus would die, along with Lupin, and even potentially Potter. And so planet earth would fall. It was both terrifying and ridiculous that the world depended on an impressionable fifteen-year-old. Fifteen-year-old boys were easily the stupidest group of people on the planet, as they had the hormones of an adult and the mind of a child. Severus was a teacher – he knew.

"My Lord, the potion," Severus said. "It could take years to properly develop. Are you quite certain you do not want to test it on Muggleborns first?"

"Quite certain! Not a drop shall be wasted!"

"Not a drop." Severus did not mention how many drops of Potter's Veneficus he had intentionally wasted. "It was why I suggest it – we could extract the Veneficus from other Muggleborns."

"No." The Dark Lord was quite firm. "I must be the one and only to drink this potion and it must come from Pet."

The Dark Lord wanted to create a potion to make him more powerful. In history, all plans to increase the amount of Veneficus produced in the body had had disastrous outcomes. But a potion containing Veneficus, to get it in the bloodstream, had never been tried. Obviously, one would need to drink the potion daily, weekly, monthly, or even yearly to get the amount of Veneficus to be consistent, but that was hardly the concern at the moment. It was just creating the potion, a potion Severus thought he had figured out. He could not let the Dark Lord drink the proper potion, though – for him to be more powerful than he already was would be terrible.

The use of Potter's Veneficus was nothing more than poetic justice. Or revenge. Or an attempt to make the prophesy fulfilled in some sort of way. Even not knowing the details, however, he knew he did not want Potter's magic to mix with the Dark Lord's successfully. It would mean defeat.

"Yes, my Lord. So even though we can dispose of the Muggleborns that take a successful form of the potion–" Severus stopped. The words gave Severus an idea. An idea so utterly brilliant, it was no wonder a Slytherin thought of it first. It was the barest strain of an idea, and would need all the kinks worked out... and it would need time to plan and execute.

They would only get one chance.

"My Lord, I have just been inspired like I have never been before." Slytherins told the truth – and managed to deceive people with it – instead of telling blatant lies. "Will you please excuse me?"

As Severus hurried away, he did not spare Potter/Pet another glance. If he was lucky, there would be quite a few more glances between them in the future.

* * *

"_You're a great wizard, Harry."_

"_I won't; you know I won't."_

"_Course, I wouldn't know, would I? I was stuck behind that tapestry the whole time."_

"_It's Gred. God, get it right."_

"_Mental, isn't she?"_

"_You're a wizard."_

"_Harry and Ginny, sitting in a tree, K-I-S-S-"_

"_Avada Kedavra!"_

Harry sat up, a sob in his throat. It was just a dream. He knew it was a dream. It had to be a dream, even though whenever he shut his eyes, he could still see that bright green light.

His body was sweating, even though he was not afforded a blanket. He groaned at the wet spot on his legs, and on his cushion. The strong smell was a dead giveaway. He had wet at night like a little baby.

He looked over his shoulder only able to make out the barest shapes in the dark. There was no need for worry – there was no one looming over him, wand extended. In fact, there was no one looming over him at all.

But if no one was, how come he got a creepy crawly feeling up his back like someone was?

He edged off of his cushion and onto the carpet. He considered going to the bathroom to try to clean his cushion before Voldemort found out, but was too scared to. What if that snake was in there again? What if, when he turned his back, someone clobbered him from behind?

Nervously, he looked behind him again. No one was there. He was alone, save Voldemort, who lay asleep in his bed.

_He won't get angry. It was just an accident. You didn't mean to. He'll understand that. It'll just take a cleaning spell to make better._

And while that was probably true, he didn't dare wake Voldemort up. He was never awake when Voldemort first awoke, but he imagined that it was not pleasant. Not because he was grouchy, but because he felt refreshed, and inspired to spend another day achieving dictatorship and murder.

Harry was pretty sure anyone who was woken up in the middle of the night would be kind of crabby, though.

Ron and Hermione were okay. They were okay, as were all of Harry's friends. It had just been a dream. Voldemort was asleep – he hadn't killed anyone.

And if he had, how would Harry know? Dumbledore wouldn't send him that dream, whether it was true or not. That'd be mean. Maybe it meant Harry was psychic? Was that possible? For him, probably not – he was pants at Divination.

He pushed the cushion into the nearest corner. He didn't want to keep sleeping on it while it was wet and stinky. He liked the carpet well enough.

But he smelled kind of bad. If Voldemort woke and smelled Harry, he'd probably make Harry take a bath. He might get angry. Harry could just see Voldemort's eyes intensify in redness, narrowing. He could already feel the tension, hear the coldness in the wizard's voice. He could already see the stiff short movements, and hear the unnatural silence between them.

Voldemort didn't like it when Harry misbehaved or made things inconvenient. And if Voldemort was unhappy, Harry was unhappy.

He spit on the palms of his hands and then rubbed the liquid around his thighs. It didn't help the stink much – it just made harry feel a lot more like a kitty. That was how kitties cleaned themselves, wasn't it? With their spit?

He didn't have a ton of options, though. He didn't want to see that snake in the bathroom.

The thought of the snake made Harry think to look behind him again. The fact that there was nothing there did little to quell the nerves in his stomach.

There would be no sleep that night, he didn't think. He'd have to stay awake, so when Voldemort woke, Harry'd be prepared and wouldn't be taken off guard.

A tickling feeling was on Harry's neck. He swiped at it, thinking it was maybe a spider. Even though he wasn't particularly afraid of spiders, it made him feel unsettled.

In his dream, Ron and Hermione, along with Neville Longbottom, Fred, and George, had been killed by a blast of green light. He hadn't been able to see who had done it in his dream, but knew whoever had done it had had a long beard. Voldemort didn't have any hair anywhere.

But it had just been a dream. Voldemort promised in a way that left no room for deception that he wouldn't hurt or kill any of his friends. It hadn't been any Death Eaters Harry knew in real life, or in the dream.

He wrapped his arms around himself, trying to stop the shivering. Despite the shivering, he was still sweating.

"_Avada Kedavra_!" A soft hiss brought Harry's bravery to an end.

He crawled as fast as he could to Voldemort's bed and climbed up into it. He buried his face in Voldemort's shoulder, hiding from the invisible non-existing thing giving him such fright.

Protecting himself, as whenever Voldemort was around, no one dared touch him.

He looked up when Voldemort shifted ever so slightly. Voldemort didn't open his eyes. "What is it, Kitten?"

"Scared." Harry clutched Voldemort's bedclothes.

Voldemort slept in the centre of the bed, on his back. His hands were folded over his stomach. He never moved much while he slept, and this night was no exception.

He chuckled. "Sleep, Kitten; you are safe."

Harry bit his lip. He didn't want to sleep in Voldemort's bed – he had vowed to never do that. But he couldn't sleep on the floor, because it was too dark. And if he slept in Voldemort's bed, that would probably mean Voldemort wouldn't be as angry about the peed-on cushion when he found out about it.

Besides, Voldemort didn't have much of a nose. Maybe he couldn't smell the pee.

When he laid his head on Voldemort's chest, he could hear a rumbling chuckle. He didn't get what was so funny about being scared, but that was Voldemort for you.

**Coming up next in **_**Disorder**_**...  
Chapter XIII: Darren**


	13. Darren

**Disclaimer: I do not own "Harry Potter" or the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.**

**Chapter XIII: Darren**

* * *

Harry chewed his lower lip as he watched Voldemort pick over the big tomes on the numerous shelves. "Why is Master going?"

"That is privileged information." Voldemort laid a book called _The Instant Antidote_ on the table. He opened it and began to rapidly flip through the pages.

"You're leaving Kitten." Harry tried to lace his voice with as much disgust as possible. He didn't like that Voldemort was leaving him. Not just _leaving_, but leaving _him_.

He now had thirty-two marks underneath the bed. He had been Voldemort's captive for well over a month. If Voldemort was gone overnight, Harry would lose track of when to make scratches. If Voldemort left, Harry'd go mad with loneliness. He liked it when Voldemort was around. He spent too much time bored and alone.

"For less than twenty-four hours." Voldemort tucked the very large book into a very small bag.

"Still leaving." Harry'd have to eat his next two or three meals all by his lonesome.

"You will be fine. Merlin said that–"

Harry didn't give a flippity-flop what Merlin said. "A Muggle philosopher said that 'absence makes the heart grow fonder'. And _you_ always say Muggles don't know anything." He pointed an accusing finger at Voldemort. "That means in twenty-four hours, you might hate me."

How did he know Voldemort didn't hate him already? Harry had almost killed him once. Voldemort had tried to kill him during the Third Task. That certainly indicated hate. But then why didn't he kill him now? Was it a change of heart? Voldemort said he didn't have a heart, so a change of one was pretty much impossible.

"My Kitten will be fine for only a few hours by itself. Should something happen to put it in mortal peril, the house-elves or Wormtail will rescue you." Voldemort made the small bag disappear.

"No, it won't be fine. It will be miserable."

"Won't it?" Voldemort's lips curled. "Would it rather not be alone?"

Harry would rather not be alone. He always felt like something bad was there behind him when he was alone. He didn't have to verbalise this, however; Voldemort knew. He always just _knew_.

"I would entrust Kitten to Lucius, however, he lives at his home, and I dread to think of you in that drafty manor. Severus will be with me, and he also has a meeting to attend this evening. I hardly trust many others." Voldemort led Harry into the bedroom.

What was the point of having friends or followers if you couldn't trust them? Harry thought that was pretty stupid, but he didn't dare say it. "Does he still have Lup– the mongrel?" Harry asked almost daily about Lupin, and he suspected Voldemort was tired of hearing about it.

"Yes, he does." Voldemort paused. "Ah. Nagini!"

The horrid snake slithered out of the bathroom. "Yesss, Masster?"

Harry hid his face in Voldemort's robes. He knew she wasn't a Basilisk, but he didn't like looking at her, anyway.

"Fetch Rodolphusss. Tell him I have an additional anniversary gift for him." He looked at Harry and smiled a creepy smile. "What do you think of the Lestranges, Kitten?"

* * *

"Let Kitten go!" Harry fought the leash. "Kitten doesn't want to go with you! Kitten doesn't want to!"

"Select the toys – we haven't all day." Rodolphus tapped his foot impatiently.

Harry didn't want to bring any of his toys anywhere, and he told Rodolphus so. "Would rather stay alone than go with you!" Harry didn't want to be alone for hours on end, but after hearing the conversation between Voldemort and Rodolphus, he would prefer it. He didn't want to be pet-sitted or be part of an anniversary gift. He wanted to feel safe, was all. Was that too much to ask?

_And Voldemort leaving is what's causing you to feel unsafe. How ironic._

Rodolphus began dragging Harry out of Voldemort's rooms and into the corridor. "Do you want your master to know how you are behaving?"

No, Harry didn't want him to know, but it couldn't be helped. "Stop!" He tried to stop Rodolphus from taking him by planting his bum on the hard floor of the corridor – it didn't help.

Voldemort had instructed Rodolphus to take 'Pet' with him, until he returned. He had specific instructions regarding Harry's menu, sleeping arrangements, and care, mentioning above all that no physical harm was to befall him, even if just temporary. He had made casual mention of watching the anniversary gift, and of Pet's participation.

Rodolphus had almost been salivating.

Harry trusted Rodolphus and Bellatrix Lestrange less than anyone in the world. He rarely saw them, but heard them quite often in the Dark Room, torturing innocents. He knew Voldemort considered Bellatrix the 'best' at it, and had overheard many saying she was crazy. He didn't trust that they wouldn't hurt him, and even if they didn't, he didn't want to be around them, or alone with them.

"What is this?" Snape met them in the corridor.

Harry clutched Snape's robes. "Don't let them take Kitten! Don't let them take it!"

Snape knelt down and, using a white handkerchief, wiped the saliva from around Harry's mouth. "What have you done to make Pet go rabid?"

Rodolphus hissed. "None of your business."

"Ah, but it is. I am off to do the Dark Lord's bidding concerning Pet." Snape reached out and tucked a lock of Harry's lengthening hair behind his ear. "What has he done to you?"

"Nothing!" Rodolphus spat.

Harry didn't particularly like Snape, but anyone coming to his defence was a chance of rescue from Rodolphus. "He's gonna take Kitten!"

"_Take_ you?" Snape's eyes narrowed. "Define 'take'."

"To our _quarters_, Severus! The Dark Lord–"

"Master had to go away, and is leaving Kitten with them!" Harry didn't think Snape would pity his tears, but couldn't stop them. "Doesn't want to go! Is–" He stopped. He wouldn't admit to anyone but Voldemort that he was scared.

Snape stood. "It's frightened. I suggest being gentle and patient with it."

Rodolphus snorted. "That's rich, coming from you."

Snape's facial features hardened. "If you abuse the Dark Lord's pet, I assure you he will find out, and the result will be unpleasant for you."

Harry's leash was now only gently tugged. "Come, Pet."

"Let go of my robes." Snape said firmly. "Your master will not endanger your life. Trust me on this. Go with him."

Harry had to trust Snape's words. Voldemort wouldn't put Harry in danger, that much was true. For whatever reason, he liked Harry too much to do so.

* * *

One could have cut the tension in Grimmauld Place with a knife. The group sat at the table, all eyes on Severus as he entered the room. Even Black made no move against him – someone must have sedated him.

"Ah, Severus, we were just opening the meeting." Dumbledore took his seat. "Would you mind leading for now?"

"About time you showed up," Black spat. "Get lost?"

"No, I was checking on Potter's health." Severus, even to his own surprise, managed to respond to the question civilly. "He was quite afraid of Rodolphus and Bellatrix Lestrange. I made certain of his safety before I left."

"Why was he with them? Arthur Weasley asked, no doubt out of parental concern.

"That is irrelevant."

Black hit the table. "He's my godson!"

"That is also irrelevant."

"Severus," Dumbledore implored. "Please."

"Should he ever see you again, Black, I am sure he will divulge all. Now, Lupin is safe. He asked me to tell you all that, and to not worry about him, to only worry about rescuing Potter." Severus made eye contact with Black. "He was very clear about his wishes."

"However, his being captured may work in our favour. He is at this moment with Lucius Malfoy, and is thus learning his way around the compound." He took care not to mention that Lucius was to try to trick the werewolf into spilling Order secrets.

"I have regular access to Lupin, unlike Potter. Lupin's access to Potter, while not unlimited, is greater than mine. The Dark Lord sees him as a way to get Potter to obey."

Severus and Lupin had spent hours cultivating a plan of insane proportions. Insanely _small_ proportions. Severus had never worked with a plan so simple before, but had to admit it had its merits. The Dark Lord would never expect a simple plan coming from Severus' corner.

"Obey what?" Black asked. "I'm his god-damned godfather! I have the right to know!"

"Sirius, right now it's better if you don't know. Harry is not in any mortal peril," Dumbledore said placatingly, though he did not have Lupin's ability to calm Black.

Severus explained the plan to an extent, but in true Order-of-the-Phoenix fashion, only told certain bits to a select few. He told Arthur Weasley only what he needed in real estate, and asked Moody and Shacklebolt only to stand nearby as the plan unfolded. He let Black know only of the letter Lupin had written for him, but did not hand it over reluctantly – he knew, despite the fluff, that there was a plea for money inside. He had told few people of Voldemort's potion, and none of the rape.

Not even Dumbledore.

That night, as he was kept awake by Lupin's snores, he prayed to whoever would listen for their plans to go as they hoped. For his strength. For Potter's inherent lucky streak to not cease, and for Lupin's sanity.

They needed all of the strength, luck, insanity and sanity both, that they could get.

* * *

The Lestranges' quarters were a lot smaller than Voldemort's. Harry supposed it made sense, as the Dark Lord was just that – their lord. He was supposed to have bigger and better everything.

It made Harry feel a little smug. He had better quarters than anyone with the Dark Mark.

Their walls were blue, and the floor was hardwood. A couple stains were on the wood that, as much as Harry scrubbed in boredom with the palm of his hand and some spit, wouldn't lift. A heavy iron smell hung in the air that made Harry nauseous. He could taste it in his mouth, as odd as that was, but tasting it didn't help him identify the smell.

He kind of regretted not bringing along any of his toys. The Lestranges' rooms were so boring. He had explored both the main room and the bathroom in under an hour – he knew because they had a clock.

He sat there, alone. Rodolphus had dumped him off and left, and there had been no sign of Bellatrix. Poking a stick in the fire had only been fun for so long. It had been five hours. The most boring five hours Harry had spent in a while.

Rodolphus entered the room, whistling a merry tune. "Is it behaving?" he asked Harry.

What kind of question was that? He was behaving to a degree, but both boys and kittens got into trouble sometimes. "Guess so."

He was considering asking Rodolphus if they could please go back and pick out a couple of toys – just the mouse, bell, yarn, and the odd-looking thing he had received the previous day. With those items, he would surely be able to entertain himself better. But when he saw what Rodolphus was levitating in, all thoughts of toys evaporated.

It was a boy. A boy just about Harry's size. He had brown hair that flopped in his eyes, and, like Harry, he was naked.

"Put me down!" The boy protested. His eyes widened when he saw Harry. "Help me! You've gotta help me! The door's open – run and get help! Save yourself!"

Harry watched helplessly as Rodolphus used a spell to bind the boy's limbs before lowering him to the floor.

"Do not untie him," Rodolphus warned. "Do you understand me?"

"Yes, sir." Harry bit his lip.

Rodolphus continued whistling his tune even as he locked himself in the bathroom to freshen up.

The boy was thin, but not like Harry was. He was not all that pale, except around his waist, meaning he had seen sun in recent months. He had a couple bruises, but was otherwise free of the external injuries that most of the Death Eaters' prisoners boasted.

"Who are you?" Harry tentatively crawled over to the boy.

The boy's eyes were wild as he struggled against the magical bonds. "Where are we? What's going on? What kind of sick prank is this?"

A feeling of homesickness filled Harry. He missed talking to kids his age. "Can't answer any of those questions. Don't know the answers."

"My mum was talking about kidnapped children yesterday that she heard about on the telly," the boy said. "Is this it? Is that what this is? They kidnap kids?"

_The telly._ Realisation dawned on Harry. "You're a Muggle."

"A what?"

Well, if he had had any doubts before, he didn't now. "You're not a wizard. You can't do magic."

It took less than two minutes to inform the boy of all he needed to know about the wizarding world; magic existed, some people were born able to use it, a bad wizard was trying to take over the universe. Normally, it would have taken much longer to convince a Muggle of all of that, but when one was kidnapped and levitated by magic, Harry supposed they believed much easier.

"What are they gonna do?" The boy's voice trembled.

Harry felt sympathetic. He remembered how it felt to be so afraid of Death Eater things. He mostly wasn't now, but this boy's fright was contagious. He had to look behind them, just in case.

"I don't know," Harry admitted. "These two are a little crazy. They're not gonna hurt me, but I doubt they brought you here for company."

The boy paled. "What's your name?"

The response did not come instantaneously to Harry's lips like it once had. What was he supposed to say? He wasn't allowed to say his name. "What's yours?"

"I asked first."

_He has a point._ "They call me 'Pet'."

"They call you what?" The boy gaped.

Harry lifted his chin to better display the collar. "Pet."

"Why? What's your real name?" The boy chewed on his lower lip.

_Harry. Harry James Potter, and my address is 4 Privet Drive, Little Whinging, Surrey, GU27. Cupboard under the stairs, or the smaller bedroom. Got too big for the cupboard._ "Just Pet, please." Why did it make him so sad that he could barely remember what the house he had grown up in looked like? It wasn't like he had fond memories of it.

"Are they going to give me a name like that, too?"

"I don't know. Tell me your real name, so if you forget it, someone here will remember."

"Are you worried about forgetting yours?"

_No. I'm Harry Potter. My name is famous._ "People know my name."

"Darren," the boy said,

_A real name. A normal Muggle name. _Harry missed hearing those. "Darren. Darren, what happened? Why are you here?"

Darren told Harry all about the Death Eaters breaking into his home. He told how they killed the family cat, Shadow. How four Death Eaters took his sister and mum into next room, and how they started screaming. He told him how a scary lady was cooing at his little brother, and how they took Darren away. Darren's voice was full of emotion as he told the story, but he didn't cry. He had to be pretty strong not to though, because just hearing about it made Harry want to cry.

"Was a bald man there?" Harry asked. "Really pale scaly skin, not much of a nose?"

Darren wrinkled his nose. "No. Why?"

_Because he's my 'master'._ "He's the one trying to take over the world. Just wanted to know because if he was there; it'd mean he could be coming back soon." If he came back, Harry could beg for lives to be spared. If Darren's family hadn't been killed already.

"Are you a wizard?" Darren began biting at his bonds – Harry didn't have the heart to tell him that it was a waste of time.

Was Harry allowed to say so? "Yes, but they don't let– can't do magic here."

"Why not?"

Harry shrugged. "Dangerous. Don't know why."

"You talk funny."

He did not. He sounded fine. He sipped out of his water bowl just in case, however. "Want some?"

He carefully lifted the tin bowl and put it up to Darren's lips, who took a few greedy sips.

"What's the date?" Harry remembered to ask once Darren was done drinking.

Bellatrix walked through the room and into the bathroom, paying them no mind. It was as if she didn't even see them.

"Um, I don't know… November third?"

_November. November third. That made one, two, three months. Three months with Voldemort. Only three months_. It seemed like so much longer.

The two talked for quite some time. Bellatrix and Rodolphus were taking forever in the bathroom, but that was all right. The longer they were in there, the longer everything would be okay.

"Not going to be around for much longer," Harry warned Darren. "Master will be back at any time now. Will have to go with him."

"Master?" Darren turned green.

"The dictator wizard. He'll be back soon, and it'll be time to leave. Be close, though. You gotta hang in there."

"How?"

"Keep your teeth clenched, your tongue behind them," Harry advised. "Bit tongue in two once during the Cruciatus, and it really hurt."

"Cruciatus?" Darren's eyes were wide. "What's that?"

Harry didn't have a chance to respond, as both Rodolphus and Bellatrix chose that moment to come out of the bathroom. They were both clad in only dressing gowns. Rodolphus had shaved, and Bellatrix's hair looked more wild than usual.

"Happy anniversary, sweetie." Bellatrix placed a kiss on Rodolphus' cheek.

She turned and tottered over to Darren and Harry. She was so unbalanced that she nearly spilt her glass of wine by simply walking.

There was nothing more Harry wanted to do than to move out of her way, but he couldn't. He had to protect Darren as well as he could. He had to. He was the only one there for Darren at that moment. And he made an excellent human shield – his mum had died being his, and Bellatrix couldn't touch him.

"Oh, Pet is here to join us," Bellatrix crooned, knelling down to their height. Her eyes were bloodshot. "How nice of it."

Harry froze as she lightly traced his jawline with one abnormally long fingernail. The hair on the back of his neck stood on end, but again, he did not flinch. He couldn't.

Bellatrix's big lips formed a smile. "Good Pet," she whispered. She looked behind Harry. "And who is this?"

Darren didn't answer, so Harry spoke in his stead. "His name is Darren Millard. He has a sister, a brother, and a cat named Shadow that just died. He's from Chelsea, and is supposed to wear glasses, 'cept they broke. Please don't hurt him," he pleaded. "Master wouldn't like it."

Bellatrix didn't buy it. "But your master selected him for our… very special night." She licked her lips.

Harry had learned a lot of things in three months. One was that you never challenged a Slytherin. You had to be careful how you handled every situation. He also had to be careful so as not to shame Voldemort.

"Can you at least wait until Kitten's master comes back?" Harry asked. "Just to be sure."

Bellatrix's wine glass transfigured into a dragon-hide whip. "No."

She cackled with glee as she pulled Darren up to his feet.

Harry wrapped his arms around himself, watching Darren struggle against the invisible magical bonds. Darren would be okay. He _had_ to be okay. He was just a kid. He knew Voldemort killed kids all the time, but this was different. Although he was not one of his Hogwarts classmates, he felt like he knew Darren.

He cried out along with Darren when the first blow hit Darren's body. A large amount of blood seeped out of the wound and onto the floor.

_The stains on the floor. The stains on the floor are from blood._ Harry quickly moved off the one he was sitting on.

Darren's cries grew in volume and intensity as the strikes of the whip began to fall faster. One particular blow splashed blood all over Bellatrix; Rodolphus laughed and began to lick the blood off of Bellatrix's face.

Harry looked away.

An hour later, as Bellatrix and Rodolphus made love in their bed, Harry found himself crying over a swollen, bloody, cold body. He was crying for many reasons, but mainly because of the bleak realisation that it could easily have been one of his close friends. Ron. Fred. George. Neville. Seamus.

But it wasn't. Voldemort had spared them.

**Coming up next in **_**Disorder**_**...  
Chapter XIV: Distraught**


	14. Distraught

**Disclaimer: I do not own "Harry Potter" or the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.**

**Chapter XIV: Distraught**

* * *

He didn't know when he fell asleep. Sometime after the Lestranges, covered in blood, cried out in ecstasy. Sometime after Darren's body grew cold and grey. After the blood inside the stiff body became tacky, and Harry's sobs became weak. Only then did he fall into an emotionally exhausted sleep.

As he slept, he relived the terrifying hour of the boy's death. He saw the fear in the boy's brown eyes as the curses fell upon him. He saw the boy's terror as spiders began crawling out of his nose. He remembered the boy's screams as splintery rods were jabbed into him.

_The boy. _He had to think of Darren as 'the boy'. He had to stay emotionally detached. It was the only way that witnessing such a traumatic event could ever be bearable.

Even so, he felt like a traitor. He had been called 'the boy' his whole life, not realising until he got into primary school that other children were routinely called by their names. And what service did 'the boy' do Darren's memory? Harry was the last person, save the Lestranges, to see him alive. He could at least honour him by using his name. But on the other hand, would he want to be remembered like that, as he was when he died?

It was a tough dilemma. One that a fifteen-year-old boy should never have been faced with. But Harry had long ago realised that his reality was far different than most.

"Such confliction." Someone stirred Harry with his voice. "It's quite unhealthy for pets to be stressed so. I would like my Kitten with me for years to come."

Voldemort. Harry opened his eyes. He was back in Voldemort's quarters, lying on the ottoman. He was warm, comfortable, clean, and away from the Lestranges.

Most importantly, Voldemort was back, standing beside the ottoman. Beside Harry.

A sob escaped Harry's throat. He threw his arms around Voldemort's waist, burying his face in his robes. "You're back!" He choked. "You're back!"

Voldemort's hand cupped the back of Harry's head. "What's wrong? Did you have a bad time?"

Terrible, but Harry couldn't say. He was crying too hard to breathe, let alone speak.

Voldemort had left him with the Lestranges. Had he known what they were going to do? Had he considered it? He couldn't have intentionally put Harry in that position.

But he _had _to have known. He had been the one to first mention the extra gift for the Lestranges – what had the gift been, exactly? A witness? Surely, he could not have realised how terrible it would be.

"Hush now, Kitten. You're fine."

Those words only made Harry cry harder. No one called him 'Kitten' but Voldemort. He had not been called Kitten in so long. Darren's body had hung in front of the clock, so Harry had lost track of how long he had been at the Lestranges'.

"You left me!" Harry continued to sob.

"Had I known Kitten would be so traumatised, I mightn't have." Voldemort never admitted to being wrong. It was infuriating. "I was only gone overnight."

Harry jerked away from Voldemort, looking up at him. "Only overnight?"

"Less than twenty-four hours." Voldemort thumbed away the streaks of tears on Harry's face. "What made the experience so bad? The Lestranges were under strict orders not to touch you."

They didn't have to touch him to hurt him, didn't Voldemort know that? "He was a boy! Just my age!" He reburied his face in Voldemort's robes. He wished Voldemort could comfort him like his friends could have, but he didn't think he could. Any motion of comforting from Voldemort felt awkward, like Voldemort didn't really have too much experience with comforting.

But at least he tried.

"He was thirteen." Voldemort continued to pat Harry's head.

"That makes it worse!" Harry was fifteen, practically grown. Someone who was only thirteen was much worse.

Voldemort chuckled. "You are still very young, Kitten."

Fifteen was not young in human years. In kitty years, it was _ancient_. But he didn't dare argue the point further with Voldemort, who was quite obviously reading his mind.

"You let them kill him." Harry didn't think he could cry anymore.

"He was already destined to die. He was a Muggle." Voldemort explained. "The way he died last night was far less painful than the alternative."

Harry couldn't see how. Twenty-five minutes of the Cruciatus had to be preferable over what Bellatrix Lestrange did to him with the ice. "How?"

"Trust me." Voldemort's eyes indicated that he would divulge nothing further.

Apparently, Harry did have some tears left. "But he was just a boy!"

Voldemort looked at Harry a long time before continuing. "Are you saying it would have been less cruel of me to give them a grown man, with a wife and children?"

Harry was at a loss for words. To kill someone with family and kids was worse than killing someone without them, but to picture what had happened the night before and to say it was a lesser evil was unthinkable.

"I thought so." Voldemort lifted Harry and placed him in the bed, on the brown bedspread. It often occurred to Harry to wonder how Voldemort could lift him, as he had such skinny arms, but now it was not a pressing matter.

Voldemort sat at the head of the bed, legs outstretched. He beckoned Harry over to him, so Harry crawled over and lay in his lap.

"I did not think the killing would affect you so." Voldemort threaded his fingers through Harry's hair. "My Kitten has witnessed many events in the past that did not jar it so."

Harry kept his fists full of Voldemort's robes, just in case. "That's different."

Voldemort's fingers stilled. "How so?"

Harry didn't know how to explain. True, he had not cried the last couple of times in the Dark Room, but being unable to see had helped. It didn't mean he thought torturing people was right or okay – he was just used to it.

But Darren hadn't been just another person. He had known him, kind of. To Harry, he had a name, a family, a past, unlike all of those people tortured in the dark meeting room. It was so much more personal.

"I see," Voldemort responded to Harry's thoughts. He continued scratching Harry's head.

"Where'd you go?" From his position, he couldn't see Voldemort's expression, which wasn't good. He wouldn't be able to tell his mood.

But Voldemort didn't seem angry. "Did I not tell Kitten that was personal?" He moved on to scratching Harry's back just as Harry's head began to feel sore.

"Yes, Master did. Won't tell anyone, though. Lips are zipped."

Voldemort stopped scratching. As much as Harry fidgeted, trying to get him to continue, he wouldn't.

"Zippers are Muggle contraptions."

It was just a saying. Harry hadn't meant any harm. Voldemort could get so touchy, so suddenly, over the smallest things. "Um... sorry? Buttoned lips?"

Voldemort relaxed and resumed scratching. "I hardly need any more risks. The less people I inform of certain things, the better."

What could Voldemort do that was such a big secret? He told the Death Eaters his terrible plans so that they could put them into action, and as far as his personal life went... well, wasn't Harry, his kitten, his personal life?

_Not necessarily. He spends a lot more time alone, out of these rooms, than here. He can't be setting up evil plans the whole time. He's got to have some sort of life. _Obviously, Voldemort could not just walk into a pub and get his groove on, but he had to do something besides planning evil, being evil, and spending time with Harry.

Harry pressed his lips tightly together. Of course Voldemort's life didn't revolve around him. He was supposed to be _glad_ it didn't. But he wasn't. Who was Voldemort spending quality time with when he wasn't working?

"Not just anyone," Harry said. "Kitten isn't just anyone. If Master says not to tell, won't tell. Who does it have to tell?"

Voldemort's nails scratched lightly in small circles on Harry's lower back. "It is not something you want to hear of."

That's what he was afraid of. "Try Kitten."

"If witnessing the killing of a mere Muggle child affected you so, I am not inclined to inform you of my travels."

Oh. That didn't _sound_ like personal stuff. More like business, if you could call what Voldemort did 'business'.

"No ifs, ands, or buts?" Harry tried one last time.

"No. Close your eyes to it." Voldemort's hand lightly skimmed Harry's buttock.

_Don't stop him._ Harry bit his lip_. He's not doing anything bad. If you tell him you want him to stop, he'll get mad. Or leave._ Harry was not about to let him leave. Not about to let him leave him alone.

"Is Kitten jealous of those I encounter in my travels?" Voldemort chuckled, continuing the scratching of Harry's buttocks.

_Not of the ones you kill, but the others, yes._ "Yes, Master," Harry spoke through clenched teeth. The effects of being touched so nicely were uncomfortable, as his penis was trapped against Voldemort's robes. He hated that his body gave such false signs. He hated how it showed signs of arousal when in fact he was just enjoying the affection. He hoped Voldemort didn't notice.

He noticed.

"Kitten is enjoying the touch?" Voldemort whispered in Harry's ear, sending up goose bumps along his skin.

Harry shivered. He had been enjoying the touch until his body betrayed him. He couldn't even say 'no' or Voldemort would get angry and leave again. This time, for days. He knew he would, with everything in him. He knew he and Voldemort didn't have telepathy, but it kind of seemed like it sometimes. Voldemort's reactions were fairly easy for him to predict.

The last thing Harry wanted was for Voldemort to leave him again. Leaving him alone would give him nightmares, and maybe even hallucinations – lots of things lately had been happening that he hadn't noticed, or vice-versa. But he didn't want to go back to the Lestranges, either; he had seen enough rough bloody sex for a lifetime.

"Yes, Master," he whispered.

As Voldemort's touch began to go where it perhaps shouldn't, Harry's thoughts began to move elsewhere. To Ron. What would Ron say if he knew Harry was a dirty boy? If he knew Harry had been touched by Voldemort? If he knew that Harry's body had encouraged it, by squirming and his penis lengthening and rising?

"Roll over, Kitten," Voldemort said in a low voice.

Harry had no tears left, and had he, he wouldn't have cried anyway. It would make Voldemort angry. Even though he could read his thoughts and know Harry didn't want it, Voldemort didn't care. Voldemort just wanted obedience from him, and Harry knew it. He wanted him to go against his needs and wants to obey him. It wasn't about sexual satisfaction. It was about satisfying Voldemort's need for control. And though Harry knew it was quite sad, if it meant Voldemort not leaving, he would do almost anything.

He stared up at the ceiling as Voldemort touched. He didn't have to immobilise Harry anymore – Harry was happy to give the control to him.

Ron would think Harry was a demon now. A gay, twisted, perverted demon. The Dursleys would want him less than they ever did. Hermione? What would Hermione think? She was a good girl; she wouldn't want anything to do with a dirty boy.

But it didn't matter, did it? Who knew how many days he had accidentally skipped the scratching under Voldemort's bed? He had been gone so long; his friends had probably stopped wondering what had happened to him. If kids weren't found within two days, statistically they were probably dead. He wasn't dead, but he was unlikely to return. Would it make Voldemort angry if he knew Harry was sad about that? He'd better stop thinking about it, just in case.

Voldemort was no longer touching him down there. He had his head leaned back against the headboard, and was rubbing Harry's chest, humming a tune off key.

Harry looked down at himself. He was flaccid.

"Did– Did Kit–" he was too embarrassed to ask.

Voldemort looked down at him with interest. "Did Kitten what?"

Harry had never said the O-word out loud, and he wasn't about to say it now. "Did I, um, come?"

Had Voldemort an eyebrow, he'd have quirked it. He was still able to quirk the skin above his eye, however.

"Is Kitten asking if it ejaculated?" Voldemort's eyes went from red to almost black. "I have told it it is never allowed to touch itself down there."

Harry flushed. Voldemort had given him strict rules about masturbation. Harry had not broken those rules on purpose, but sometimes, absent-mindedly, his hand wandered down there.

He was almost always punished with a spanking on his bottom or a stinging hex between his legs.

"No!" He said before Voldemort could punish him. "No, Master. Just saw Master finish, but didn't feel anything."

"Saw me finish?" Voldemort peered down at Harry. "Kitten, I think you're having wishful thoughts. I did not touch you down there."

Harry's mind raced. Voldemort _had_ touched him down there. That's why he had rolled over, so Voldemort could reach him better. He had touched him, but there was no tell-tale sticky white stuff. He had zoned out, but surely had he orgasmed he'd have come out of it.

Voldemort eased Harry off his lap and stood up. "Hana is going to bring your food. Eat it and rest."

Harry rose to his knees. "Who's Hana?"

"A house-elf."

Figured. Harry had never seen the same house-elf twice. He asked Voldemort why.

"They have a tendency to get killed in battle." Voldemort ran his fingers over the mantle. "Even with as many as we've lost, we shall not run out. They breed like no creature on this earth."

Harry shuddered. "When Masters goes, can Master please give Darren a proper burial? Don't want Nagini to eat him."

Voldemort looked strangely at Harry. "Darren? I beg your pardon?"

"Darren. The boy the Lestranges..." Harry checked to make sure he was not crying. "Can you please, Master?"

"The Lestranges have killed no children as of late, Kitten." Voldemort's forehead creased. "You are due for a draining in several hours, what is perhaps your last one. Rest, and perhaps after the draining your mental stability will be restored."

Harry watched Voldemort leave. He tried to regulate his breathing, to reduce the panic he was feeling. And the sadness – was he really going mad?

He looked down at his hands. A sob escaped him, a sob of relief; there was dried blood underneath his fingernails.

**Coming up next in **_**Disorder**_**…  
Chapter XV: **_**Death**_


	15. Death

**Disclaimer: I do not own "Harry Potter" or the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.**

**Chapter XV: Death**

* * *

_Harry was standing in Dumbledore's office. The room was exactly like he always remembered it being, complete with Fawkes. Dumbledore's face was very lined, and even though Harry knew he was ancient, he was suddenly aware of how very much so._

_"Harry, listen to me." Dumbledore tightly gripped the desk before him. His blue eyes lacked the twinkle that so often occupied them._

_This was a far different dream than Harry had been sent from Dumbledore in a while. Ever._

_"You must trust Severus. Severus is with us. He is on our side."_

_'No,' Harry wanted to protest. 'He isn't. He's bad. He tortured Lupin!' Unfortunately, he could not make his dream self speak._

_"Listen to me; he is on our side. You must trust us. Lupin is safe, as well; he is not hurt. Severus only wants you safe._

_Voldemort has a variety of things keeping him from dying. It is too complex to tell you how, but items such as a crown, locket, ring – my, he does have a thing for jewelry – have been destroyed. Voldemort's fixation on you has allowed the Order of the Phoenix to destroy the objects keeping him alive. Save two."_

_The Order of the Phoenix? Harry didn't even know what that was. It sounded like an army of phoenixes._

_Dumbledore was very serious. "Harry, trust Severus. He needs your help."_

_What did Snape need Harry's help for? Snape was a grown-up – he was capable. Harry was barely capable of not spilling his tuna. And Snape never wanted Harry's help. Even if Snape – hypothetically – needed help, he'd never ask Harry. He either hated Harry, or was on Voldemort's side. Maybe both._

_A blast of green light appeared, startling Harry, but Dumbledore did not blink an eye._

_"He needs help finding a snake. The snake is the only thing keeping you from coming back to Hogwarts. Harry, do you know where Voldemort's snake is kept?"_

_Nagini? Nagini was kept in the bathroom mainly, but he couldn't say, even if he wanted to, because dream-Harry couldn't speak. And he wasn't sure if he _should_ tell, even if he could. Why did it matter where Nagini was? Voldemort would be angry if he knew Harry had told someone he shouldn't have. If it was a secret, that is._

_"You must trust us, Harry. I have told you to be patient. You needn't be patient any longer. Tell Severus where the snake is."_

_Harry expected Dumbledore to continue, but he didn't. He disappeared. Harry's world was black._

* * *

"Potter." Someone prodded him. "Potter, wake up."

He didn't want to wake up. He liked the foggy dark. It made him relaxed.

"Harry." The person spoke again. "Harry, you must wake."

Now he _knew_ he was dreaming. He was Kitten. Pet. He wasn't Harry or Potter any longer. No one called him that anymore. Just Pet. Pet, Pet, Pet, come here, kitty-kitty.

He wasn't allowed to be Harry Potter anymore.

"Harry." Someone grasped his chin and tilted his head. "Harry, you must answer me. I mean it, Harry Potter; this is no time for games."

_Touch_. Someone was _touching_ him. Touching his chin. That wasn't fair. You couldn't be touched in dreams. That was what made pinching yourself to wake up work so well. Apparently whoever was touching him didn't know the rules.

"Open your eyes, Pet."

_Pet_. The dream was over. Reality had set in.

He opened his eyes.

It was Snape, letting out a huge breath.

_Snape_. Snape who had hurt Lupin. Snape who gave T's in class. Snape who was the bad guy and the good guy. The bad guy you were supposed to trust, even if you were afraid to. But if you trusted him even when you thought it was a bad idea, what was the sense in the Muggle saying, 'go with your gut'? It was a _Muggle_ saying, however; maybe it just made no sense.

Everything in him told him to get away from Snape, but he couldn't. He couldn't lift his head. The draining had drained him.

"Do not be afraid." Snape took a handkerchief and wiped the drool away from Harry's mouth. "I know you are frightened. Can you understand me?"

Of course he could understand him. He spoke English. "Yes, sir."

"Excellent." Snape grabbed Harry's shoulders and sat him upright. It didn't last long, though – as soon as Snape let go of him, he fell over.

"Leave 'lone." Harry tried to get out of Snape's reach, and failed miserably. "Tell Master."

"It's all right; your master knows I am here. Pet, you must tell me; where is Nagini?"

Nagini. The creepy snake. The one that lived in the bathroom, that got to come and go as she pleased, while Harry was stuck inside Voldemort's quarters. Voldemort had never said Harry couldn't tell where Nagini was. He never said much about Nagini, in fact. But there was that dream... it seemed rather suspicious, the timing of it. He was sent the dream just as Snape arrived in Voldemort's quarters. Dumbledore had talent, but even he wasn't _that_ talented.

"No. Don't trust you." Harry licked his lips.

Snape dabbed the drool again. "That is a highly intelligent thought. I hardly seem the trustworthy type. But I am when it comes to you, you must believe me. My loyalties do not lie with anyone but you. And in order for me to protect you, you must tell me; where is Nagini?"

Harry bit his lip. Why did Snape want to know? Why was it so important he know? Surely if Voldemort trusted him, he would already know.

_Hogwarts. Ron. Hermione. Hedwig. _Snape was linked to all of that. Dumbledore trusted him. And if he trusted Dumbledore... did he trust Dumbledore? He knew he should, but something in him didn't think it was a good idea.

But trusting his gut was not necessary right, was it?

"You will not get into trouble." Snape brushed some of his infamously greasy hair behind an ear. "Hurry, Pet – please."

Harry took a deep, shaky breath. "She's in the bathroom."

"The bathroom." Snape blinked. "_This_ bathroom."

Harry took in another breath. Perhaps he had been unwise to mention it.

"Stay here." Snape stood. "Do not leave, and do not tell anyone I was here." He started for the bathroom door.

"Why? Why are you going in there?" Harry turned his head so that he could still see Snape. "I thought you said Master knew you were here."

Snape hesitated. "I pride myself on my skill in misdirection."

* * *

He had left the bathroom a gory mess. It was bloodier than his parents' bedroom had been on Christmas morning 1976, when his mother had taken her own life. Decapitating gargantuan snakes had a tendency to make a bloody mess. He had not anticipated just how bloody – the Dark Lord's once pristine bathroom was now drenched in foul-smelling snake blood.

Thankfully, Potter had just been drained, and was therefore incapable of wandless or accidental magic. Locking charms would suffice for the bathroom door. He had to hurry though, before blood began to seep underneath the door, giving away his deed.

Potter would no doubt go into a frenzy.

It was disconcerting how Potter did not respond well to his first name. Everyone called Potter 'Harry', with the exception of some of the staff at Hogwarts. Severus had called him that when trying to wake him, in the hope that it would renew some of the boy's lost trust in him. It hadn't worked. It had only made Potter suspicious, and perhaps even more distrusting.

The effect the Dark Lord could have on people in only a matter of months was tremendous – three months for a child to stop responding to his own name.

"My apologies, my Lord." Severus made a quick bow before hurrying over to the bubbling potion. "Pet was quite asleep."

He quickly dumped Potter's diluted Veneficus into the cauldron, stirring it before the Dark Lord could realise what it was.

"And it was quite willing to give it up?" The Dark Lord wrung his hands.

"Quite." Severus smirked. "I think it was pleased to not have to go into the bathroom."

"Ah, yes; Nagini frightens him so."

_Now you tell me where the snake is kept. _The Dark Lord had a tendency to make Severus' job that much harder, without even realising it.

The Dark Lord began pacing back and forth. "And you are quite sure this one will work?"

"My Lord, I am staking my life on it." Severus was; it wasn't a lie in the slightest.

All of the Dark Lord's horcruxes were now destroyed. The diary had been first, years ago. Slytherin's locket had been found in Kreacher's possession, and the diadem in the elusive Room of Requirement. The cup had been a bit trickier, but with dark curses, threats, mind games, and stealth, it had been recovered. The ring had left Dumbledore's hand black, and Severus thought it worried the old man more than he let on. Nagini had only moments ago been slaughtered.

Then he had dealt with Potter.

The basilisk fang had not destroyed the horcrux in Potter because the phoenix had healed him. Violent actions, such as decapitation, would kill Potter. Ironically, their only hope had been the Killing Curse. Despite Dumbledore's confidence that it would not kill Potter – only the Horcrux – Severus had not been certain.

But the curse had _not_ killed him. The famous scar on the boy's forehead had begun to bleed, but that was only a minor concern.

Lupin had been the one to help him concoct a story about urine in potions, needed to be given up willingly, not coerced or tricked. The idea had been ridiculous, disgusting, and seemingly outlandish, but it did have its roots in advanced potion making. Luckily, the Dark Lord hadn't noticed his slight of hand when he had added the extra Veneficus instead of urine – in reality, Potter's urine would have counteracted much of the Veneficus.

Severus poured the thick purple potion into a large goblet. "My Lord, receiving such strong magic into your system in such a short amount of time could be quite painful. Before you drink, would you like for me to leave?"

The Dark Lord took the goblet from Severus. "Gather my followers. Have Wormtail put Pet in its cage. We shall have a celebration!"

"Yes, My Lord." Severus left. He wanted to have a celebration, too. He wanted to celebrate what was hopefully the last time anyone ever again saw the Dark Lord alive.

* * *

His cage was being levitated down the corridor. That was unusual; his cage was typically conjured from place to place. Very rarely was it actually levitated down the hall. It was kind of fun if he didn't look down. To see the floor moving beneath him was nauseating.

"Ah... Severus..." Lucius Malfoy caught up with them, carrying his snake cane. "On Pet duty, I see."

"The Dark Lord wishes to see you in the meeting room, Lucius." Snape pulled open a creaking door. "Light it well. The prisoners in the adjoining room shouldn't be fed unless Wormtail wishes to grovel in it again."

Harry had learned that prisoners always puked about four minutes into the Cruciatus. It was always less messy when they had empty stomachs.

Lucius raised an eyebrow. "But it is not Friday... and why are you taking Pet to the cellar? What is wrong with its–" he motioned to his own forehead.

Harry brought his hand up to his forehead. His hand came away with sticky blood.

"I'm bleeding!" He realised out loud. "I'm bleeding! My scar is bleeding!" It _had_ to be his scar. He hadn't bumped his head that he could remember. His scar sometimes hurt, but it had never _bled_ before.

"That is a sign of our Lord's success," Snape said. "He will explain it at the meeting. Pet is to go to the dungeons to witness the beast's transformation. It is the full moon, you are aware."

"And our Lord approved of that?"

"He demanded it."

_The full moon. The beast. Transformation. Witness._

Harry had seen Lupin transform before, and it was not an experience he was keen on repeating. Early last year, before the summer break, Lupin had been escorting Pettigrew back to Hogwarts, and had forgotten to take his Wolfsbane. He had transformed into a werewolf, and it had been one of the scariest things Harry had ever seen at the time. He would never forget watching with horror as Lupin's nose elongated and hair started popping out of places Harry hadn't realised had hair follicles.

Most of all, he remembered the screams. He had been so scared hearing a grown adult's anguished screams. Now it would probably scare him more that it _didn't _scare him so badly.

But just because he was used to screams didn't mean he wanted to hear them. He didn't want to watch Lupin in terrible pain, helpless to make it better. And he didn't know why Voldemort wanted Harry to witness it.

He looked down at his fingernails. Sleeping and draining did not clean fingernails, so consequently, they were still caked underneath with Darren's blood. Voldemort would never put him in that situation again, would he? He had practically promised.

"Lucius!" Snape snapped. "Stop standing about! The Dark Lord gave strict orders! Do _not_ disappoint."

Lucius' eyes hardened as he stared at Snape. Harry guessed that Lucius, like Draco, hated to be told what to do.

_Draco Malfoy... _Harry hadn't thought of him in so long. The Amazing Bouncing Ferret, that was what they had called him so many times last year. 'Potter stinks' was what they had said about him. It all seemed so distant now, so petty, so stupid. Why had he cared what little flashing badges said?

Snape guided the heavy cage down the creaky, dark stairway.

"Where's Master? Need to talk to him," Harry demanded, wrapping his arms around himself. It wasn't easy to keep balanced in the cage. "Need to talk to him now."

"Your master is unavailable at this moment," Snape said softly.

How unavailable did Snape mean? In Tahiti unavailable, or in the other room unavailable? "Tell him it's important."

"It would be a disrespect to him to impose on his privacy at this time." The stairway led to a large, equally dark room. The torches on the wall gave very little light at all. Their light barely enabled Harry to see the steel bars that blocked off a portion of the room.

He could also barely see the people chained up behind them.

"'Bout time you showed up, Snape." The bulky Death Eater guarding the prisoners sighed. "Look, can I pull out the silver chains? He's making me nervous."

Harry followed the Death Eater's nervous glances to a man pacing unchained behind the bars. He was tall, but walked with slumped shoulders. He, like all of the other weary people behind the bars, paid Harry no mind.

The man was Lupin.

"Lupin!" Harry pressed his face against the bars of the cage. "Lupin!"

"Are you mad?" Snape snarled at the Death Eater. "The silver around his ankles will eat his feet off. Are you so simple-minded that you cannot comprehend–"

Harry was hit with a pang of homesickness at his former professor's words. He used to be on the receiving end of such scathing comments; now he was just Pet.

"There are enough prisoners in there to distract him for the night." Snape nodded to the people behind the bars. "Your job is to see that he properly transforms, and cannot escape. Do not touch the bars of the prison! You are aware, I assume, that the dungeon door can only be opened by one–"

The Death Eater growled. "I am not an idiot, Snape. Do not–"

"Prove it," Snape said. "You are to come upstairs as soon as you are able to do so. The Dark Lord has demanded we all gather and wait for him."

The guard's eyes drifted down to Harry. "What about Pet?"

"What of Pet? It needs to be as far away from the Dark Lord as possible at this time. Any residual magic it may possess could have negative effects on it in the presence of the Dark Lord."

"Really? Why?"

Snape growled. "Just do as you're told." He left without a backward glance, leaving Harry alone with a strange Death Eater, prisoners, and a werewolf about to transform.

The Death Eater smiled down at Harry, a smile that stretched his thin lips and showed many of his false teeth. Shadows filled his hollow cheeks and eye sockets. "Hallo, Pet."

Harry shuddered, and tried to ignore the man. He couldn't touch him, after all. Besides, he had more pressing things to worry about than a slimy Death Eater. A Death Eater that didn't even bear the Dark Mark.

From what Harry could gather, Voldemort was going to have a very important meeting. Something very big – something that could be good or bad for Harry – had happened or was going to happen. And whatever that was affected Harry or his magic. Or it affected Voldemort if Harry was around.

But then, why couldn't Voldemort just let Harry go? Or put him in another room? Why did he have to put him down in the dungeon, on the full moon of all nights?

"Lupin, can you hear me?" Harry tried to get Lupin's attention. "Lupin? Lupin? Professor Lupin, can you hear me? Remus?" Lupin had asked him to call him by his first name, but it was kind of awkward. He hardly ever called grown-ups by their first names.

Lupin stopped his pacing and looked at Harry. He didn't say anything, though. He continued pacing after a moment.

"Lupin!" Harry pressed his face up against the cage. Tears were streaming from his eyes, but it wasn't because he was sad or mad. He didn't know why. "Lupin! why are you ignoring Pet? Why don't you answer?"

It didn't take long for him to give up and be reduced to sniffling, curled up on his side in his cage. He hugged his knees close to himself, trying to keep warm in the cold dungeon. The bottom of the cage against the concrete was hard against his ribs and other bones. He was so sleepy.

He wasn't the only one sniffling; the people in the prison area were, too. All of them but Lupin. They were all teary. Harry didn't want to be around when Lupin transformed. When he transformed, he would be wild. He probably hadn't been provided with Wolfsbane, which meant he wouldn't be in his right mind.

He would inevitably attack everyone stuck behind the bars with him, biting them and maybe even eating them. Harry would be forced to hear their screams, hear them being torn apart. He would be able to smell their blood.

The Death Eater leaned up against the stone wall. He had his arms crossed, and was tapping his fingers on his forearm. He would sigh, and then continue tapping his fingers.

Finally, it happened. Lupin arched his back and let out a terrible scream.

Harry curled into an even smaller ball, tucking his head down, covering his head with his arms. He wouldn't look. What had happened to Darren was still fresh in his mind, and under his fingernails.

How long ago had the incident with Darren happened? A few hours ago? A few days ago? Whenever Harry was drained, he seemed to lose days. He hadn't seen Voldemort in so long, it felt like a week, at least.

Lupin's screams were quickly joined with the screams of those in the dungeon with him. Harry's gut twisted when he heard them screaming. He wanted to do something to help them, but there was nothing he could do. Even if he were skinny enough to squeeze through the bars of the dungeon, he couldn't take the people out with him.

Actually, he probably _was_ skinny enough to squeeze through the bars of the dungeon. He didn't weigh much at all. That said, he still couldn't pull people out with him. Besides, there was the guard watching him, and Harry was stuck in his cage, which was locked with a charm, the way it always was outside of Voldemort's rooms.

That had used to frustrate him. It had been frustrating that simple charms he had used in his first and second year at school were keeping him locked in his cage. Now, it didn't bother him. He didn't mind the cage, really. He wished he could help, but he didn't dare go against Voldemort's orders.

Even the inexplicit ones.

"Well, that's entertaining." The Death Eater did not move from his position from against the wall until Lupin's screaming turned into howls of pain. "Enjoy, Pet."

The Death Eater hurried out of the dungeon, up the stairs. He almost tripped on his feet on his way out, as a matter of fact.

_Lucky him._ He got to escape. He didn't have to watch. Or listen. Or be around it. Harry was an expert in terrible experiences. One did not have to see them happen, or hear them happen, for them to be traumatic.

* * *

Harry lifted his head. The screaming had stopped. The sniffling had stopped. The dungeon was silent.

_He ate them. He ate them all. They're all dead._

Harry knew there were probably eaten people in the dungeon, and Moony was probably there, chewing on a leg bone. He knew he didn't want to see that... yet, he had no choice. He had to look.

It took a moment for his eyes to adjust to the darkness, after being hidden away behind his hands. The dungeon was lit so dimly that one could barely see.

The people were still there in the corner, huddled together. They were still breathing. They sat, frozen, staring with wide eyes.

Harry followed their stares to the large werewolf standing by the bars. It looked just like a regular wolf, except that it was a little bigger, maybe. It was grey, and had big eyes. Its ears were laid flat against its head.

It was Lupin. Moony, as Sirius called him. And he let out a whine.

_Don 't move. Don't say anything. _Harry didn't want to provoke him. Moony couldn't get to him through the bars, Harry thought, even though werewolves were notorious for their great strength. But if he was provoked, he could attack the other people. He could kill them, easily. And would. Since right now he wasn't, they must be doing something right.

Moony let out another whine. Harry watched him put his tail between his legs.

"It's okay," he whispered. "It's okay, Moony. It's okay."

Moony walked over to the huddled group of people. He licked the little girl's face.

"Moony, get away from them!" Harry tried to keep his voice from provoking Moony. Snape had warned them all about the dangers of werewolves in third year. "Moony, come here, Moony."

He hadn't expected any of his nonsensical ramblings to do any good, but Moony left the people and came to the dungeon door.

He barked.

_Has he had Wolfsbane? Where would he have gotten it? _Wolfsbane was a good thing, and it was fairly expensive and complicated to make. Snape wouldn't have made it for him. But Moony had listened to Harry. Without Wolfsbane, Mooony was mad. He wasn't in his right mind. He was like an animal, not a person at all.

Harry bit his lip. "Moony, speak. Please."

Bark.

"Again."

Bark.

"Um... wag your tail."

Moony's tail lifted and wagged.

"Roll over."

Moony whined and sat down, tail tucked underneath him.

Why didn't he listen? Was it just a fluke?

Moony whined again, before laying down and slowly rolling over. He then stood and let out another whine. His tail was still tucked between his legs.

"Um... turn in a circle, then bark three times."

The wolf walked in a perfect circle, and then barked.

Three times.

Harry gaped. Lupin _had_ taken Wolfsbane.

**Coming Up Next In **_**Disorder**_**...  
Chapter XVI: **_**Departure**_


	16. Departure

**Disclaimer: I do not own "Harry Potter" or the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.**

**Chapter XVI: Departure**

* * *

Moony walked over to the door to the bars and whined again. He stood up on his back legs and nuzzled it.

"Kitten can't." Harry wrapped his arms around himself. "Get in trouble."

Moony let out another whining noise, before getting back on all fours. He began to run his head against the bars, trying to squeeze through them.

"Don't!" Harry cried out. "You'll get stuck, and there's no one here to rescue you! Don't try to squeeze through! The bars are too close together – Kitten can't even do it."

Moony stopped and looked at him, cocking his head.

"What?" Harry felt rather stupid, talking to the werewolf. Yes, Moony could understand him, but it still felt rather like talking to a dog.

Moony barked again.

"Can't let you out," Harry said. "Cage needs a charm to open. Um, what's the one? _Alohomora_. And your dungeon door probably needs a more complicated one than that."

He didn't know what Lupin was trying to do. Had he forgotten, sometime during his transformation, that Voldemort had pretty high security, in and out? Had he forgotten that Harry was just Pet, that he wasn't a Death Eater and did not have a wand? He couldn't figure out what Lupin expected out of him. No one expected much out of him, and they would be foolish to, as Voldemort let him do little.

Moony shook his head.

"No?" Harry tried. "No, I can't let you out. It needs _Alohomora_ to open."

Moony shook his head again.

"Are you trying to say I'm able to let you out?"

Moony didn't do anything for a moment, and then slowly he lowered his head, before raising it again. He repeated the motion of nodding _yes_.

Lupin was being impossible. "It doesn't unlock by itself. It's charmed shut." Harry was starting to get annoyed. What was so complicated about that that Lupin could not understand? Was Moony's intellect significantly less than Lupin's? Voldemort had cut Harry a lot of slack in security in the past several weeks – he did not now always have to use a leash, for example. Voldemort never locked the bathroom anymore either, confident that Harry wouldn't use the toilet or bathtub without his permission. Harry wasn't sure if he even locked the other door anymore – he'd never tried to open it.

Cages, however, had a clear purpose – to keep one caged in. To let it be unlocked would be stupid, the most counter-productive thing Harry could think of. Voldemort was many things, but stupid and counter-productive, he was not.

Moony stared unblinkingly at him. He did not move, not even his tail. It was rather unnerving.

"Moony, it's _stuck_!" Harry almost shouted in frustration. "Locked! Closed! Fastened! Threw away the key! Not allowed! It's locked for a reason! See?" He pushed on the door to the cage with all his might, to demonstrate the strength of the locking charm.

The door fell open, toppling Harry out of the cage.

His stomach turned to ice. The cage door had not been locked. Because Voldemort hadn't been around to see that it was locked. _Snape_ had left it unlocked.

"_Weasley! Laziness will get you on the corner of Diagon and Knockturn, begging for a Knut! Do it properly with no shortcuts, or leave my classroom!"_

"_Brown! Forgetting details like that is for the simple-minded! Are you thick? Go join Hufflepuff. I expect a certain level of adeptness from my fourth-year students. I expect them to not forget key ingredients!"_

"_Wipe that smirk off your face, Finnegan! Goyle, thoroughness is the only way you can ever complete any task. Did your mother drop you on your head as an infant, or were you just born that way?"_

Snape never did things by accident. He always did things on purpose, or at least he boasted he did. Even when he screwed up, like trying to get Sirius and Lupin Kissed by the Dementors, it wasn't by accident; had he known they were innocent, he still would have tried it. There was no way he _accidentally_ left the cage unlocked. It was too simple. A cage existed to be locked. He would not _forget_ to lock it.

This meant he consciously _chose_ to leave it unlocked. He made a choice. He thought about whether to lock it or not and chose not to. Why? Did he want Harry to get in trouble with Voldemort? Was that why he had asked where Nagini was, to boast to Voldemort that he knew where the snake was, to get Harry in trouble? Then, when Voldemort didn't get angry, he tried another method? That had to be it. There were no other options... yet that didn't sound right. If Snape wanted to get Harry in trouble, surely he would have found a more subtle way.

Snape had left it unlocked on purpose... but why?

"P-p-p-p-potter?" A prisoner stood up on shaky legs. He had lacerations all over his mostly-nude body and a full beard, though he appeared to be maybe in his thirties. He was almost as skinny as Voldemort.

Harry bit his lip. Would he get in trouble if he answered to that name? Surely he would. He was not to be called that any longer. Only Pet. And Kitten... Voldemort called him Kitten.

"P-p-please let us out!" The man sobbed. "Please save us! P-p-please. My w-wife and son are at home, i-in Sur-surrey. My-my wife is dis-disabled. She has mul-mutiple sclerosis, and is not able to take c-c-care for our son. She-she needs me. They n-need me!"

Harry stared at the man in disbelief. Who did that man think Harry was? He was just Voldemort's kitten. A boy in actuality, but in _their_ reality, just Kitten. Pet. Harry wouldn't be able to free him even if he wasn't Voldemort's kitten – he didn't have a wand, and even if he could get him out of the dungeon, then what?

"Please!" An older woman, maybe forty, joined in the man's pleading. "Please! Please let us out! _Please_!"

Several other people joined in, chorusing for their rescue. Harry did not understand; just because he was out of his cage didn't make him a superhero. He had never done anything heroic in his life. He had only survived the Killing Curse because it had hit his mum first. He was responsible for Cedric's death. He wasn't a hero, and could not help these people. It made him sick that he couldn't do anything but lie there and watch.

Moony turned to the prisoners and barked loudly, sharply, until they quieted. Then he turned to Harry again, and wagged his tail.

Harry cried helplessly, "Moony, can't! Snape didn't lock the door to Kitten's cage, but he didn't _unlock_ the one to the dungeon! Too _weak_! Goyle and Yaxley drained it – muscles too tired to move!"

Moony darted over to the dungeon door. Cocking his head, he grabbed a bar with his teeth and began to pull on it. The door didn't budge.

"See! You can't open it, and you have _werewolf_ strength! It's not able to open!"

"It is," a haggard old man broke in. "It just needs opened from the outside."

What a ridiculous claim. Why would Voldemort go through such pains to make his fortress so hard to break into, and then not lock things securely on the inside? Dumbledore was one of the most powerful wizards alive, except for maybe Voldemort, and _he_ couldn't break in. Dumbledore, who had his own chocolate frog card.

Then again, what was the point of locking things so securely on the inside? The only people that could get inside of Voldemort's fortress were his most trusted Death Eaters. The only ones that were regularly inside were Marked, and those that weren't went to great lengths to prove themselves worthy of it. The only people who could get in were trusted – there was no need to lock them out of things. A trusted Death Eater feared and respected Voldemort, and wouldn't go into his quarters without permission or an order. A Marked Death Eater would never open the dungeon door without clear orders.

There was no _need_ for it to be locked from the outside. That seemed rather... convenient.

"It's... not locked?" What was the point? Why did it matter if it was unlocked or locked? There was no way for the prisoners to escape. The corridors were watched carefully. There were always Death Eaters coming and going along the corridors, especially when Voldemort was about to have a meeting. The prisoners would have no hope of escaping. Even if they snuck out one by one, it would only take one to get caught before swarms of Death Eaters came down to the dungeon and slaughtered them all.

They had a better chance of survival in the dungeon.

Moony whined again, and pulled on the door.

Harry wanted Lupin to live more than almost anything. He wanted Lupin to go to his house, and live happily ever after with Sirius. He wanted Lupin as far away from Voldemort as possible, for as long as possible. Of course, someday Voldemort would catch up with him and kill him, when he ruled the world, but that could take years... If he escaped and hid well, he could live for the rest of his life without repercussions.

However, 'escape', despite being a fairly easy word to spell, was not easy to execute. It was tough, and with four legs and a shaggy wolf coat, Lupin did not exactly look like a man with a plan.

"W-what would the plan be if you, you know, were let out?" Harry asked. "You'd, um, have to have a plan to escape. Vol-vol– Death Eaters will catch you." He almost said 'Voldemort', for the first time in weeks. He had to watch his tongue.

The prisoners were quiet, without an answer... except for Moony, who barked wildly and wagged his tail, his ears perked.

Moony was a werewolf with a plan.

Harry took a deep breath. Voldemort would not kill him. He never would. He said with Harry, he would never die. He needed Harry alive so he wouldn't die... unless he used Harry's corpse as furniture, because that would still count as 'having' him... but why hadn't he done it already? Surely, if the plan was to kill him, he would have done it promptly, in the candy shop.

He crawled over on weak limbs, and gripped the iron bars. It took a lot of strength to pull himself up to a standing position, strength he didn't have. His sweaty palms, tight on the bars in a death grip, threatened to slide. The dungeon was silent to Harry's ears as he concentrated on his legs supporting him.

They wouldn't, and he fell, barely above a squatting position.

Moony barked, and ran in circles as if chasing his tail, in front of the door.

"Can't!" Trickles of tears down his face. "Legs won't work!" He hadn't used his legs to stand on in so long.

_But you don't need to stand to open a door, do you?_ He could crawl over to the door and just pull it open... or reach up to the handle and pull it.

In ten minutes of concentrated effort, a very weak young boy did just that, opening the heavy door only centimetres wider than the spaces between the iron bars.

It was enough for Moony to squeeze through, though.

"Let us out!" A prisoner cried out, going over to the door and trying to squeeze through. "It's too narrow! Let us-"

Moony turned to them and barked loudly, before turning to Harry and licking him on the face.

"Okay," Harry said in between gasps for breath. "Pet... okay. Okay. Good. Fine. Okay."

A strained guttural noise came from Moony's throat. He left Harry alone, and darted to a small culvert in the stone wall.

It was not much; a half-circle in the wall, meeting the floor. There were bars keeping things in and out, letting a small puddle of water flow in or out, depending on where it came from. If one was in the right position, they could see the moon reflected in the water. The big full moon.

Harry lay on the floor, too sleepy to move. The amount of strength it took to crawl the short distance to the door, and then open it, had been enormous for him. It took so much of his precious strength, strength he had little of due to the draining. And for what? Moony would end up being caught... if he got out. The culvert was very small, and though large enough for Moony to crawl through, the bars would need to be removed.

Harry was confident in the fact that Moony was strong, but not strong enough to break down iron bars.

Moony began letting out loud shrieks and squeals, and an acrid smell began to fill the air of the dank dungeon, but Harry was too sleepy to investigate their source. All he wanted to do was to be back in Voldemort's quarters, sleeping curled up in the big comfy bed. Maybe Voldemort would scratch his back when he got back from his meeting. It would make for the most comfortable sleep.

* * *

"Pet, it is time to waken."

Harry groaned, and curled up tighter in the ball he slept in. He didn't want to wake up.

"Pet, listen to me. It is Professor Snape. You are safe."

_Safe. Safe._ Of _course_ he was safe. Voldemort always kept him safe. He would never let him be in danger. Even in the most terrible situations, Harry was kept safe. Like when Darren was–

_Darren_. The blood. The screams. The busted eyeball.

Harry opened his eyes. His surroundings were blurry, but cleared after he rubbed the sleep from his eyes.

He was in a small room he had never been in before. The walls were a deep green. The bedside table was cleared of all items, and the bed perfectly made. The sole window was covered with heavy grey drapes. The only other piece of furniture in the room was a small green cushion. The cushion Harry was sleeping on.

He sat up, his head swimming. Where was Voldemort? Where did he go?

"Breathe, Pet. Deep breaths. Lie back down."

"Where is Master? Where'd he go?" His arms didn't seem to want to hold him up any longer, so he collapsed back on the cushion.

"Everything is fine." Snape was sitting on the floor next to the cushion. It was a position Harry had never imagined Snape sitting in before. Snape always acted so sophisticated. Sitting on the floor was the opposite of that.

"Not fi–" Harry's voice cracked. Not because of tears or puberty, but because his throat was dry. He tried to remember the last time he had had something to drink.

_The dungeon. The cage. The unlocked cage. Lupin. Moony. Bars. Prisoners. "Please help us." Opening the door. Screams. Shrieks. Howls._

Harry sat back up. This time the room stayed in focus. "What happened? Why didn't you lock the cage? Where's Lupin? What'd you do to him? Where's _Master_?"

Snape pushed a bowl of water across the floor towards Harry. "Drink, Pet, and we will talk."

Harry looked suspiciously at Snape. Snape who tortured Lupin and left cages unlocked. Snape the Potions Master, who could make complex potions like Wolfsbane without batting an eyelid. Snape who could most certainly put essence of iocane in the water to poison him.

But why would he? What would be his motivation? Spending so much time around Voldemort had given Harry an insight into the way Slytherins thought. He now knew how they avoided trouble so easily – they thought.

Harry took his chances and took a cautious sip of the cool water.

"Now." Snape reached out and stroked Harry's hair back. "Now we can talk."

Harry tensed at the touch, but did not shy away. Voldemort touched him like that all the time. He didn't think Voldemort would like it if he knew someone else was touching him, but it was not a _bad_ touch, so Harry couldn't say no.

"Before you ask, Lupin is safe. He is injured, but will recover. The bars over the culvert were made of silver. Silver is very dangerous to those affected by lycanthropy." Snape paused. "Had I known they were made of silver, I would never have put him up to it. Believe me in that. I would have found another means for escape. However, your friend was very determined. He made a space just large enough for the both of you, and somehow got you several meters from the building. I was waiting, along with Aurors Shackbolt and Tonks. Then we Disapparated."

"The Death Eaters caught on to what was going on, of course, but by then it was too late."

It was too much to absorb. What was Snape on about? He was talking as if Lupin and Harry had escaped, with his help... but that was impossible. Voldemort was very careful.

_Voldemort_. Where was Voldemort?

"Where's Master?" Harry demanded. He bit his lip. He wondered what Voldemort thought about his disappearance.

Snape sighed. "Many years ago, there was a prophecy that proclaimed that you or the Dark Lord would kill one another, that one of you would be killed by the other."

That was nonsense. Years prior, Harry could understand that, but now they would never hurt each other.

"The Dark Lord became aware of this prophecy. That is why he captured you. If he could turn you from a liability into his pet, he was safe. In his mind, he was capable of thwarting the prophecy. He was that egotistical. Time can be rewritten, but prophecies cannot be changed. Destiny cannot be skirted around. It was going to happen, regardless of what anyone did to try to change it."

Snape stood, bones creaking. He moved and sat across from Harry, on the bed. It was as if he was trying to get away from Harry, but Harry could not figure out why he would want to.

"The Dark Lord had you drained three times, to rid you of your magic temporarily. It kept you from purposely or inadvertently killing him, and it kept you from harming yourself."

Why would Harry harm himself? That was ridiculous.

"He also had an ulterior motive. He wanted to become more powerful than he was, and decided that the perfect way to do that was to ingest your magic. I created a complex potion that would have made him succeed, but I added four times the amount of Veneficus – your magic – than necessary."

Harry gaped. He knew from experience that Voldemort was an extremely powerful wizard. He couldn't imagine how he could be _more_ powerful. But Snape helped him? Whose side was he on? It was so very confusing.

"Where is this place?" Harry asked. "Where did you take Pet?"

"You are at the Black family home, aptly called Grimmauld Place. Your godfather is downstairs with Lupin, who is being nursed by Molly Weasley. You are safe."

_Safe_. Harry was safe. Harry was home. He wasn't captured by Voldemort anymore. He could see Sirius. He could go back to Hogwarts.

But he had been safe before that, hadn't he? He hadn't been _Crucioed_ in a long time.

Snape stood again and moved close to Harry. "Pet, the amount of Veneficus I put into the Dark Lord would have killed anybody. However, the Veneficus was _yours_. That means, indirectly, he was killed by you. That through no fault of your own, you killed him. That fulfilled the prophecy."

_Killed. Killed by you. Killed. Killed anybody._

"The Dark Lord's body was recovered last evening. It was burned at temperatures of 1300 degrees, until even the ash was non-existent."

_Body. The Dark Lord's body. Master's body. Voldemort's body._

"He's dead."

A sob escaped Harry's throat. Voldemort was dead. He was dead for good.

Despite his adversarial relationship with Snape, he threw himself into his arms, seeking comfort as he cried.

"You are safe now," Snape murmured.

Harry sobbed, but he didn't know why. His heart hurt, but at the same time, he was happy. His stomach hurt so badly, but between his tears, he wanted to laugh.

* * *

"I want to see him."

"He is sleeping, Black. Be unselfish for one day in your life."

Black snorted. "Yeah. And you're one to preach that. Why don't you take the plank out of your eye before–"

"Stop." The bandages muffled Lupin's words.

The three of them were in the drawing room. Black sat on one end of the sofa on which Lupin lay, his head on Black's lap. Lupin's face was covered with bandages. While the severe injuries the silver had caused would heal, it was doubtful that Lupin's face would ever look remotely the same again.

Typically, Severus would not consider that a loss, but since there was a risk of Lupin losing his nose or upper lip, he could admit to some mild concern. Lupin had, after all, suffered a lot thanks to Severus, and had suffered it all without complaint.

Severus perched on the edge of an armchair, ready to hurry up to the room Potter was in at a moment's notice. Potter was fairly comfortable in his presence, as comfortable as he could be around anyone save the late Dark Lord. Seeing the bandages Lupin wore would most likely send the child into tears, and being introduced to Black after the life-altering three months he'd spent with the Dark Lord would require special precautions.

"You gave Weasley the Galleons for the house?" Severus asked Black. He had reluctantly accepted the fact that despite three months of unspent paycheques and the property value of his home on Spinners End, he could nowhere near afford to purchase a decent home – so he had borrowed the remainder from Black.

He wouldn't touch Potter's vault.

"Yeah. He found some cottage in Devon – he didn't think Harry'd be comfortable in a Muggle neighbourhood. The rows of houses, the people, the noise..." Black trailed off. "But as soon as Pettigrew is caught, Harry moves in with us."

That would never happen. Not Pettigrew being caught – the Ministry for Magic was hot on the trail of those with the Dark Mark, Severus not included – but Potter moving in with Black and Lupin. Potter was not capable of that in the near or even distant future.

Severus did not provoke an argument, however. "He is at the comfort level he is around me because he does not know what side I am on, or which side to trust. He knows that Dumbledore and the Dark Lord both had faith in me, which makes me his safest option. It will take time for him to feel comfortable around nearly anyone else."

"Are you going to tell him that Voldemort planted the dreams in his head?" Black asked. Black had not taken that piece of information well, that the Dark Lord had used Dumbledore to put trust in Harry.

"Not straightaway. To inform him of that would be to admit that I too placed a dream in his head. He would lose whatever trust he has in me."

Severus' plan was not concrete, which was rare for him, but he had time to form it. Dumbledore was hardly in his way now that the Dark Lord was indeed dead. Potter would require little else but tender loving care and a great deal of sleep for the next several weeks. They had months, perhaps years, before it would be necessary to bring in a licensed therapist.

Severus needed his job desperately, so during the day he would have Potter sleep in his quarters, or do activities that were appropriate for his frame of mind. He would put in his notice of resignation for the Slytherin Head of House, and quit at the end of the Christmas holiday. Then Potter could stay with Black and Lupin during the day, if he was then comfortable around them, and go home with Severus at night.

He wished he were underestimating Potter, that the boy could bounce back to his old self in a matter of days, but he knew better. The child had spent months in the constant presence of the Dark Lord. Severus was well aware of the fact that he might never recover.

Many would think that Potter's well-being was hardly Severus' responsibility, but it was. He had promised himself years ago that he would protect Lily's son to the best of his ability, and he had. Unfortunately, his best had been very poor, allowing the child to descend into the bowels of Hogwarts twice (that he knew of), to be nearly maimed by a werewolf, and so on.

But now, even predicting the worst, there was not much that could go wrong. It had already gone wrong.

"I don't know that he's smart to have trust in you," Black brooded.

Lupin's eyes were the only part of his face visible, due to the bandages. But he did not have to say anything for Severus to know what he meant.

He had made Severus promise a promise with no loopholes to never tell anyone about what had happened between him. Severus had readily agreed. He was not inclined to be murdered by Black, shunned, or thrown in Azkaban. He was also not inclined to ever be reminded of it, as he wanted to forget it altogether. The fact that he thought of it every time he saw Lupin did not help.

It was a secret, just between them. In reality, no one was to blame except Voldemort, but no one else would understand that, except for possibly Potter. It was perhaps most unhealthy to keep such a thing a secret over such a long period as the rest of their lives, but it was a risk they were willing to take.

"Master!" A scream came down from upstairs.

Severus stood. "I do not suppose you will let me dose your godson with Dreamless Sleep."

Black's blue eyes were filled with emotion. "Will it help?"

The Dark Lord had twisted the world. Twisted it in such a way that wrong became right and things in that grey area were no longer there. Everything was in such disorder that a rape became a double-rape, for both the victim and perpetrator, and no one could be blamed, except for perhaps the Dark Lord. Things were in such disarray that Dreamless Sleep, a nutritive potion, and Truthful Sleep, usually things not recommended for taking at the same time, were the only things that could possibly give a child some needed rest.

Severus reached into his robes for a small vial of potion. "At this point, it certainly could not hurt."

**Coming Up Next in **_**Disorder**_**...  
Chapter XVII: _Disorder_**


	17. Disorder

**Disclaimer : I do not own "Harry Potter" or the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.**

**Chapter XVII: **_**Disorder**_

* * *

Severus began to gather up the picnic supplies. The biscuits, the crisps, and of course, plain cheese sandwiches. He screwed the lid onto the bottled milk, ignoring the arthritic pain in his fingers. The blanket was folded up with a handy spell, and put inside the basket.

Typically, it took much longer to pack up on November Saturday. Severus would mention it was almost time to leave, and begin interjecting reminders of it in the conversation, such as how the sun was setting, or how cool it was getting. He would begin summoning Ssnitches and Quaffles, putting away books, and begin talking of about what was for supper. The mention of how 'someone' was going to need a bath usually got him a terrible glare, but in true Severus Snape -fashion, he always mentioned it.

Except this time, there was not an abundance of Quidditch supplies, fictional books, or a dirty charge. He was all by his lonesome, on the empty premises of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, watching the sun slowly set.

November Saturday, despite the indications the name gaveits name, was the first week in every August. It had originally been in November, but between the occasional snow flurries, the cold, and Severus' job which occasionally required Saturdays, it that had become inconvenient. Now, obviously, it would have bebeen more aptly renamed to call it 'August Saturday', but it eight years was quite a long time to spend calling something by one name. eight years was too long to call something by one name to change it. The name 'November Saturday' was stuck.

One year after the demise of the Dark Lord, Severus had taken Harry into London. For once, the trip had not involved any sort of doctor, therapist, or errands. It had involved visiting nearly every toy shop in the city, going to a museum, and eating at a Muggle chain restaurant. At the time, Severus' goal was to get Harry's mind off of the Dark Lord, for even just a short while, but the day also had another purpose; to be a day to live a happy, free life.

It was important Harry knew that.

The day had become a tradition. The interest in the top toy shops had only been sustained for so long, but there were plenty of replacements for things like that. As Harry began to insist to see Hogwarts, and November Saturday was moved to August, Hogwarts became the replacement. There were no students there in August, making it much more of a comfort- zone for Harry, who often did very poorly amongst crowds of people.

They did not speak of the Dark Lord often on November Saturdays. He wase had been quite a tender subject for many years, the cause of many meltdowns and tearful confusion. It had taken four years to get Harry to stop referring to the wizard as 'Master' - – now he did not refer to him as anything, but used 'Him' when necessary.

No, despite the fact that November Saturday had originated on the day of the Dark Lord's death and Harry's rescue, they did not speak of it. They avoided the subject like the plague, actually. It was hard to pretend one had a happy and free life when the subject of the Dark Lord was looming over your head.

It was hard to believe that seventeen years had gone by since those terrifying three months in 1995. It was now 2012, and Harry was thirty-two years of age. He had successfully gone through puberty, albeit a bit late due to the medical effects the draining had on him. He had made it through his NEWTs, despite thanks to an at-home education provided by Black and Lupin. He laughed, and smiled. He had been heavily involved in planning the wedding of George Weasley and Hermione Granger, with much many fewer nervous breakdowns than Severus had suspected expectedat the onset of the planning. He spent hours toiling over a notebook Severus had given him for Christmas years ago, trying to invent spells. Harry didn't know it, of course, but Severus often peered into the notebook late at night, just in case. Harry didn't share what the intent of the spells he was trying to invent was until after they were invented; so far they were just creative or fun ones, nothing dangerous. However, a very dangerous and fatal spell would not be beyond Harry, and it was Severus' responsibility to stop prevent their creation. before they happened.

This was the first November Saturday Severus had spent alone. He hadn't wanted to go, but Black and Lupin had urged him to. They had said it would be good for him, that he needed the time alone. Harry had eventually insisted. So Severus had made a half-hearted effort to have a November Saturday all by his lonesome. He had only been out three hours, but it was three hours long enough.

Harry had fallen very sick with the pneumonia only the night before. Despite the doses of nutritive potion, breathing agent, and Pepper-Up, he was still too ill to be out at noon, the time Severus had left. It would seem odd to some that a thirty-two- year-old would develop pneumonia in August of all months, but not to Severus. Harry was quite sickly, much of the time. His magic was at such a low level that the potions did not interact with his body the way that they should. Had he not been drained three times in three months, all those years ago, his health would have never been so compromised. And that was no one's fault but Severus', who had intentionally wasted so much Veneficus, to stall the Dark Lord.

Severus picked up the basket and strode over to the Hogwarts gates. He spent less time at Hogwarts than ever these days. He had managed to pick up a raise when Dumbledore had died from the curse of the Dark Lord's ring in 1996, due to the curse the Dark Lord's ring had. When Minerva had became Headmistress, the first thing she did was give Severus a raise, in fact. Apparently she realised how expensive raising a troubled child could be.

Once outside the Hogwarts perimeters, he Apparated to the outside of 12 Grimmauld Place. Black had been requited acquitted in 1997, but and despite his threats ofthreatening moveing, he never had. Harry had never gone to live with him – by the time he had the option, he was too attached to the way his life was to change it.

Privately, Severus had been very smug and happy about that fact. Though he never would have realised it in November of 1995, 'Potter' had indeed grown on him. It could have had something to do with the fact that he was no longer such a brat, though admittedly a lot more of work. It could have had to do with the absence of the James Potter glasses, though Severus would never admit being so shallow. Whatever the reason, he would be damned if he ever moved in with Black full-time.

Though Severus went to Grimmauld Place more days out of the week than not, whenever he Apparated outside, he never just walked in the front door. He always knocked. It irritated Black to no end, who claimed Severus only did it to annoy him. That was actually not the reason at all – Severus did it because the day he walked into Black's home like he was perfectly comfortable doing it was also the day he would throw himself off of Hogwarts' Astronomy Tower.

It would also make Lupin uncomfortable. Severus was not friends with Lupin by any means, but he would not torture him by walking into his house without notice or invitation. It was a line that he could never cross in good conscience, due to their history.

A haggard looking Lupin opened the door. "Severus, you're early!"

Severus stepped in without being proddedprompted to. "It hardly takes longer than three hours to eat a cheese sandwich. How is he?"

Lupin glanced over to the stairs. "He is much better. He insisted on getting up about an hour ago, but Sirius talked him out of it. They're talking. Not about anything important; last I checked, Sirius was trying to teach him how to snap his fingers."

Lupin looked terrible. Not more terrible than usual, but like the disorderly world the Dark Lord had set up, it was not easy for him to look worse more terrible than usual. His face had been permanently distorted by the silver bars of, in the culvert where from which he and Harry had escaped from. A portion of his nose had been reconstructed, and his lips, though badly scarred, still functioned. The skin, however, was very badly burnt, and his ears were nothing more than flaps of skin, rendering Lupin unrecognisable from the man Severus had known twenty years ago. He no doubt frightened people on the street daily – from Severus' standpoint,found it was mildly amusing,, when he ignored forgot how where the deformities got therehad come from.

"That is sad; he is terribly uncoordinated." Harry could barely swim, could not ride a Muggle bike, or even properly twiddle his thumbs. It did not surprise Severus to find that he could not snap his fingers.

"How are you?" Lupin asked.

Severus blinked. How _was_ he? What an absurd question to ask. He was the same as he had been yesterday, and the day before that. He was the same as he had been last year. The arthritis he had developed was painful, but was nothing to worry about; if it hurt badly enough, he would bother useing painkillers.

He and Lupin saw each other almost daily, at least four days out of the week. They were not friends by any means, though they were no longer enemies. Lupin had never asked him how he was before. Not once.

"Well," Severus said, eyeing Lupin carefully. "And yourself?"

Lupin sat on the moth-eaten sofa Black had said he would replace a decade prior. "I cannot complain."

Severus hated it when people said that. There was always something to complain about. Even when your health was pique perfect and your vault overflowing, the weather was terrible. There was always something to spoil your day or mood.

"Severus, I think Sirius knows."

_Knows. Knows. I think Sirius knows. _Severus' heart began beating too quickly for his age and health. His stomach knotted and turned to ice. How did Black know? How _could_ he know? No one knew – it was a secret that would die with them. Even Harry, who had turned into the most perceptive little bugger, didn't know.

"What?" Severus clenched his fists. "How did he find out? I did not tell him – was it you?"

Lupin looked up at Severus, puzzled. "What are you- – calm down. I wasn't talking about that. Sit."

Unabashed, Severus did not sit, or calm down. He had nightmares every so often of what had happened between himself and Lupin, and knew that what had happened weighed heavily on Lupin, too. They had never told anybody.

"I'm talking about Harry's attitude of late. I think Sirius knows why."

Severus relaxed. Harry had been most stubborn of late, demanding to have his own way. He had been most quite obstinate, even to Black, which was rare. Neither Severus, nor Harry's therapist, had been able to pry out of him what was bothering him so out of him. The fact that Black might have been able to figured it out before hime did didn't bother him. in the comparison to how hHe feltwas only worried in about having how to resolve the situation possibly resolved.

Severus sank into the same armchair he had occupied seventeen years ago, hours after Harry's recoveryrescue. "Did he say what it was?"

"I thinkHe thinks Ron's divorce upset him," Lupin said.

Ronald Weasley had married Gryffindor Lavender Brown several years ago – Harry had served as best man at the wedding. It was a marriage doomed from the start, and that was not a reflection on Weasley's personality in the slightest; no one could stand the that Brown chit.

Severus frowned. "That It is hardly news to Harry that they are separating. He has known for months that they were struggling. I was not aware that he had any particular attachment to Lavender Weasley _née _Brown."

Lupin glanced up the stairs before continuing. "Not the fact that they are getting divorced, Severus, but the divorce itself. We wonder if perhaps he is feeling frustrated. Divorce is a sign of failure in many people's eyes, and his life has not exactly been . . ."

Harry would never marry, nor would he ever have a serious lady friend. Severus believed that with absolute sincerity. There had been a time, when Harry had been in his early twenties, where he had had hope, but it had quickly vanished when he saw how Harry reacted to a woman's advancementadvances. In the most technical sense, he was still a virgin, and Severus doubted that would ever change.

He hadn't thought that the that fact made Harry miserable, however. He had thought thoughts of sexual intimacy made Harry uncomfortable. Harry confided in Severus nearly everything, a larger quantity of things than he did Black or Lupin. He had never spoken of being raped or harmed sexually, but had rehashed the Lestranges' love-fest many times. Severus had, of course, assumed there was more to Harry's fear of sexual things than he blatantly admitted, but had never focused on finding out what they were.

There was always another trauma more important to find out about.

"I was not aware he had an interest in that area," Severus said. "After the panic attack he had at his coming- of- age party, I spoke to him – you remember that." For Harry's seventeenth birthday, there had been a very small coming- of- age party for him. The Weasleys, Granger, and Longbottom had been the only ones invited. A gag gift – Severus could no longer recall who it had been from – had been a pornography magazine. Most boys would have laughed it off (or gratefully accepted it), but Harry'd had a nervous breakdown.

"I tried to figure out if it was the images in the magazine, the sex of the couple, or the magazine itself,." Severus recalled. "He does, oOddly enough, he blames the course of his life on a desk, in which he found a dirty magazine."

Harry had been a strange boy to raise. There had been no Wizard Weeklys found under the mattress, no rubbers buried in the rubbish bin. He had reason to be that way though – Harry had told him several times, late at night between sobs, of the threats the Dark Lord had made if 'Pet' were to touch 'itself'.

"You will need to talk to him about it. His lips are sealed on the matter, to us," Lupin said. "I suspect, however, it is more to do with the subject of love, lust, and his lack of interest in it, than having the interest and being unable to act on it."

Lupin shifted on the sofa. His amber eyes were serious, eyes that were the only normal part of an otherwise marred face. "Severus, I have never told anyone. I never will. I could never tell Sirius – were he to find out . . . " He shook his head.

Severus gritted his teeth. They rarely spoke of the secret between them, and he did not want to discuss it now.

He stood. "Is he ready to go home? I would like to get him into his own bed, if the dogfather does not mind."

* * *

Severus let go of Harry as soon as the ash settled in the Floo. Though Harry was perfectly capable of Flooing by himself, Severus still held him. Just in case. You heard the stories of children being snatched from the Floo, and though Harry was well over seventeen, Severus still considered him a child where it counted.

Harry marched out of the Floo, and sat himself crossed-legged in the centre of their small sitting- room floor. He resumed what he had been doing when before bedtime approached the previous evening, sorting out magazine clipping for a collage he had been making.

Severus levitated a chair over next to Harry, and sat on it, looking over Harry's progress. "Harry, are you feeling well?"

Harry crumpbled up a small picture of the United States Quidditch player, Brett Dooley. "Fine,." hHe grumbled.

"You hardly seem fine." Severus reached down for the crumpled scrap, ignoring the pain in his body as he reached down for the crumbled scrap. He smoothed it out over his knee. "Why do you not want this? I thought Mr. Dooley was your favourite foreign Beater."

"He's a Chaser." Harry did not turn around to give Severus' comment attention. "He lost a game last week."

"Ah. And we give up on people just because they lose?"

Harry did not respond, and only continued sorting.

Severus tried again. "Harry, it' is seven o'clock; why don't you go get your bath things? I will go upstairs and run the water."

"Not dirty,." Harry muttered.

Admittedly, Harry was much cleaner than he was typically was onafter a November Saturdays. He had spent the day in bed, rather than in the mud.

"You are upset about missing your November Saturday," Severus said. "We can go tomorrow, or next Saturday."

"Not the same." Harry banished his discarded scraps, and stood.

"You're right,; it isn't. However, you would have had a terriblen awful time today. Besides your illness, there was a terrible stench in the air. I think the Malfoy family was touring the school, to decide the ideal place to put their statue in front of the entrance to the Slytherin Common room."

Harry did n'ot bat an eye. Despite his encounters with Lucius Malfoy in 1995, he the man was not a sore subject. "That's nice," Harry said.

Severus raised an eyebrow. "That they' are erecting a statue to a Malfoy in Hogwarts?"

"No, that I missed them." He hesitated. "Does Draco still have just the three kids?"

Lupin had said he suspected Harry was frustrated over his lack of sexual interest. This subject was dangerously close to that. "It depends on whom you ask; some suspect he fathered his sister-in-law's child, also."

"Oh." Harry bit his lip, wrapping his arms around himself. "Um, I guess, um, can we- – did you have a good time today, besides the stench?"

"Hardly. Dry cheese sandwiches disgust me." Severus stood, levitating the chair to its original location. "In fact, I only ate one; there are many more left in the picnic basket, if you would like to eat them for supper tonight."

"Now?" The boy's green eyes lit up.

"After your bath. Go."

* * *

"_Come here, Kitten."_

_Voldemort's long fingernails grazed the back of his neck, massaging his skin. Harry arched his back involuntarily as Voldemort began scratching it his back._

"_I missed my kitten,." Voldemort whispered in Harry's ear. "It left me."_

_Harry shuddered. "Didn't mean to."_

"_Did it miss me, also?"_

_Did Harry miss Voldemort? He missed getting his back scratched. He liked the feeling he got when he thought about how he was when he was with Voldemort – part of it felt so innocent and free, though he had hardly been free._

_Voldemort grabbed Harry's arm, squeezing it so hard that his fingernails caused his arm to bleed freely. "It is not happy to see me?"_

_Harry's head began to swim. He didn't know what Voldemort wanted, what would happen if he answered 'yes'. If he answered 'yes', would Voldemort somehow conjure him back to his quarters? Would he take someone else with him? It was already his fault Lupin had so much pain in his face all the time – he didn't want to be responsible for the pain of someone else._

_And he would miss Snape. He liked Snape now, most times._

_But if he answered 'no', what would happen? Would his eyeballs get burned and busted out? They looked like his mum's. Would he get stabbed with a bamboo stick? Would he burn the bottoms of his feet be so badly burned that he'd have to use a cane like Lupin sometimes did? He didn't like burns._

_He looked down at his abdomen, and realised that he was nude. For some reason, that did not surprise him. He could see the crusted- over wound, and remembered the draining. He didn't like draining._

"Crucio_!"_

Harry screamed, He sat up in bed, and looked around to his very familiar surroundings.

He was home. He knew he was home. His bedroom walls were painted blue, and his windows were securely warded so that no one could see in from the outside. His bed covers were wet, and smelled like urine.

He looked behind him. There was nothing but his bedside table and his dresser. His closet was kept open so that he could see inside at all times – Voldemort's red eyes were not really visible there in the darkness, looking at him. It was just his imagination.

Or was it? He leaned forward, narrowing his eyes so that he could see better.

One eye winked at him.

He rolled out of bed, and began to run as fast as he could. He stumbled over his slippers beside his bed, but kept on running.

He ran across the hall, and jumped onto Snape's bed.

Snape sat up, his wand in hand, but quickly relaxed. Like always.

"Potter?" hHe said, groggily. He lied lay back down. "Did you forget your wand?"

It was in his room. Where Voldemort could get it. They had twin cores. He had forgotten it in his haste.

"Oops?" He buried his face in Snape's chest.

Snape placed his hand on the back of Harry's head. "You did not clean yourself up, I meant, Harry. _Scourgify_."

The smell disappeared from Harry, as did the wetness of his pyjamas.

"Sorry." Harry burrowed himself under the covers.

Snape sighed. He rolled over so that he faced Harry. "It was just a nightmare. You' are all right."

Snape did had not see those eyes. Had he seen the eyes, he would have understood. "Saw red eyes."

"I am not denying that it could have very well seemed that way to you, but you are still safe. Nothing in this home can harm you." Snape seemed very confident in his warding spells.

Harry curled his legs up against his chest even tighter. He always slept that way. "Sleeping in here."

"And should I not allow you to?"

Why wouldn't he allow him to? He always allowed him to. He Harry didn't do it very often anymore, only once a week or so. It wasn't like he abused the privilege. Often.

Harry lifted his head. "You should go see the eyes. You'd know."

Snape groaned. "I do not need to see them; I know what you're seeing."

"That's why I'm here." Harry sat up when Snape got out of bed, "Where are you going?"

Snape placed the featherFeather-light Light charm Charm on Harry, the charm Voldemort had always used to pick him up. Snape was just as skinny as Voldemort, but didn't hold him as tightly, so it was more comfortable.

"We are going to drink some warm milk and talk about some things." Snape wouldn't be able to carry him if it weren't for the featherFeather-light Light charm Charm – he was too old.

"Um, talk 'bout what?" Harry grabbed onto Snape's nightshirt as they descended down the stairs, in case he should fall. "It's two in the morning."

"Let me congratulate you on that keen observation; it is two in the morning." Snape settled Harry on the sofa before stepping off into their meagre kitchen to pour Harry some milk.

Harry wrapped the throw blanket around his shoulders, and peered over the arm of the sofa, watching Snape. "Why milk? Why not tea?"

"Because the natural properties of the tea will make you more anxious, and keep you up all night. We hardly need that." Snape came over with a mug of milk for Harry, and tea for himself. "Now, let's talk."

Harry tried to snuggle up against Snape, but Snape didn't let him. "The eyes are not really eyes. You know that, Harry. They are not real in the sense that they belong to somebody psychically in your closet, watching you."

Harry wrapped the blanket tighter around himself, and sipped at his milk. He liked cold milk better. "Then how come I can see them?"

"Because they are there," Snape simply said, taking a sip of his tea. "The Dark Lord is unable to pass on to the afterlife, remaining forever in a similar form similar to that what you saw him asin before he regained his body in early 1995."

Harry shuddered. They hardly ever talked about anything that went on in 1995.

"It is no mystery why his spirit, or the mass he is in, watches you." Snape brought his legs up onto the sofa, stretching his legsthem behind Harry.

"Yeah,." Harry mused. "He misses me."

"No, Harry; that is not the case." Snape gently said gently. "I do not know that he can feel emotions the same way we do, but if he can, he does not miss you. It is more of an obsession, an angry obsession. That is not a reflection on your loveability as a person; many people love you in this world. He is not capable of loving anyone, or missing anyone the way you and I do."

They had had this discussion quite a few times over the years. Voldemort couldn't love; Voldemort wasn't capable of much emotion except anger, obsession, and the sub-emotions that went along with thatthem, like jealousy. Snape insisted on it, and Sirius insisted on it. Remus didn't say much about it, but he always nodded in agreement with Sirius.

But they didn't _know_. They had never been around Voldemort like he had. They had never been Pet or Kitten. They had never had Voldemort scratch their backs, or rub them down in the bathtub. They had never slept at Voldemort's feet, or curled up against him by the fire.

Perhaps the emotions between wasn't love that Harry or and Voldemort felt about itweren't love, but there emotions were definitely emotions there. Strong, indefinable ones. He didn't want to be with Voldemort, in his fortress-place, but he couldn't help his confusing feelings.

"Don't cry." Snape conjured a handkerchief and handed it to Harry. "It is not your fault. And it hardly matters. This mass, this thing we are talking about, does not have a mind or a soul that we know ofas we know them. It is not capable of speaking, talking, or throwing growing itself on the back of someone's head. It can only float from place to place and watch. It may be a bit eerie, but you are safe."

"Can't you ward against it?" Harry cried out. "I don't like it! It's creepy!"

"I would not go as so far as to say it is a physical thing one can ward against, Harry. I have seen it very few times, but I would consider it more of a magical, spiritual, supernatural thing. It does not put you in danger. It is safe. Remember what you said about wondering if the Dark Lord would kill you? That had he planned on it, he would have done it already?"

He had thought that a lot back in 1995. "Yeah."

"It has been nearly seventeen years nearly since we first saw the eyes, this mass. Don't you think that if it could speak, that if it could physically put nightmares in your mind, then it would have done it long ago?"

It did make sense. Harry knew what Snape was saying, but it didn't make the thing go away. "It's not comforting to hear that the soulless spirit of someone is obsessed with you."

"It is not." Snape said.

Harry leaned against the opposite arm of the sofa, putting his legs on the outer side of the sofa, so that he and Snape could both stretch out – his legs did not encompass the amount of length Snape's did. and stretched his legs out next to Snape's.

"Have you heard anything else from Ron Weasley?" Snape asked.

Ron had told Harry a fortnight ago, when stopping in for a visit, that he and Lavender were getting a divorce. Divorce was frowned on upon in the Wizarding world, because Purebloods were encouraged to have tons of magical babies, but it was still allowed. Harry felt bad for both Ron and Lavender, but if a divorce made them happier, he was all for it.

"Yeah. He told me that since they have no kids, it shouldn't be too messy. He said I wouldn't have to get involved to or take sides or anything. But if I did have to, I would take Ron's side."

"Very loyal. You're a good friend. I think it' is a bit naïve of him to assume Miss Lavender will not make a mess of it, however; she seems to enjoylike the melodrama. And despite your friendship with Ron, there isyou have no obligation to get involved in the legal partities of their separation." Snape pinched his nose. "There is a subject I would like to broach that you will be uncomfortable with."

That wasn't news. Snape always wanted to talk about things Harry was uncomfortable with. He never let Harry be, to do his own things. He always wanted to _talk_. He wanted to talk about what happened _then_, or what he thoughtabout _that_, or if Harry knew _this_. Then, he would dragged him off to Doctor Hill's office twice a week, to talk about how he _felt_ about things that had happened this week, last week, five, ten, twenty years ago.

Snape always wanted him to talk. Talking was the last thing Harry ever felt like doing.

"It doesn't bug me that Uncle Vernon died. It bugs me that it doesn't bug me,." Harry repeated his response to the subject what he had been constantly asked about in thethis past month. Uncle Vernon had had a massive heart attack, according to the papers. It had been a long time coming, between his weight and temper. Harry cared, he supposed, but he hadn't wanted to go to the funeral. He hadn't cried. He didn't even feel sad at all, which made him feel bad. He hadn't seen Uncle Vernon since he was fifteen, though that was hardly a good excuse. When family died, you were supposed to be sad; it made him sad that he wasn't sad.

"That is not the subject I wish to discuss tonight." Snape set his tea aside.

Goosebumps crawled up Harry's skin. "I don't want to talk about Him, either." Every time he shut his eyes, he saw those eyes. And the smile. He could feel his touch. Down there.

"It is not my intention to talk about the Dark Lord; discussion discussing about him will hardly lull allow you to return to sleep tonightback to sleep within the next hour or two.," Snape dryly said dryly. "No.; I want to discuss your future."

Harry didn't think about his future much, and if it were not for Snape and Doctor Hill bringing it up all the time, he would think about his past probably even less. He liked to think about now; what he was doing now, who he was with now, what he might be doing within the next few hours or days. He did n'ot think of about the distant future, but except when someone brought it up.

He knew Snape was going to die someday. He Harry knew he'd probably outlive both him Snape and Sirius. He knew that Lupin's life expectancy, as a werewolf, was substantially lower than a wizard's, so Lupin only had perhaps forty years left. He knew that Ron and Hermione were both older than him, though not by much, so perhaps if he were lucky–-

"Don't want to talk about it." Harry looked down into his milk. He would have to live all by himself someday. He didn't know if he could do that. He would have to live alone, with the eyes watching him.

"I' am sure you do n'ot, but I feel I must ask; are you happy with the way things are? Do you ever wish things were different?"

What did Snape mean by that? Of course Harry wished things were different sometimes. He wished a lot of things were different, sometimes. He wished that Lupin felt better and wasn't in so much pain. He wished his nightmares would go away without aid of Dreamless Sleep. He wished Snape would allow him to develop an addiction to Dreamless Sleep. He wished Ron was happier, and wished that Ginny would get her life in order. He wished he had more friends, that he wasn't so lonely. He wished that he had a way of fixing that, a way of actually being able to be social without being scared or panicky, like normal people. He wished he could like girls – or boys – like other people.

But if he did like people the way people liked people, that would mean he would get married and have kids. He couldn't imagine that; how would he make money? He'd have to get a job. How could he talk to his wife and kids? How could he be around them? Would that mean he'd never have time to work in his spell book? What would they think if they found out he was Pet? When they found out–-

He felt Snape's arms wrap around him. "Harry, breathe,." Snape ordered. "You' are all right.; Bbreathe."

Harry breathed. Sometimes, he forgot to. "Sorry."

"Quite all right." Snape let go, and moved to sit on the edge of the sofa. His dark eyes looked at Harry carefully. "Do you remember the question?"

He did, but he didn't know how to answer. Was he supposed to say 'yes'? He supposed 'yes' would be the truth, but then Snape would ask for more details. Harry didn't want to share those particular fears and guilts, because then Snape would either try to get him to accept things as they were or get things to happen that Harry didn't know if he wanted to happen. It was all so confusing, these things that weren't supposed to be so confusing.

"You realise, Harry, that I am unwed,." Snape said slowly said.

Of course Harry realised that. He didn't know why exactly; Snape had never said. He had asked Snape once if Snape had ever had a love, and Snape had said 'yes', but had not further elaborated. He didn't think that Snape was all too that good-looking, but then again, he didn't think most people were exceptionally good-looking. Some were more attractive than others, but no one he had ever met thus far gave him that 'can't eat, can't sleep, fly to the stars, over the stadium' kind of feeling.

There were just so many things he felt like everyone knew, and he just didn't. Like how to like someone in _that_ way.

"I know that."

"It is not that I find women unattractive; I simply do not feel the need to incorporate a serious romantic attachment into my life."

_Yeah, but not serious ones are okay. _He knew that a couple of times a year, when he had spent the night at Grimmauld Place, Snape had had a lady friend over. He could always tell, but he never said anything.

"It has little to do with you, Harry; had I needed someone like that in my life, I would have found someone long before we met." Snape cleared his throat. "Not everyone needs someone in the way that, say, Granger needs her husband."

"Or Sirius needs Remus?" Harry asked.

Snape's eyes narrowed momentarily. "Or like that, yes. It is not a reason for low self-esteem, or anger. It is not something to feel bad over. Like In the same way that you do not need to feel bad about your feelingslack of feeling about towards Mr. Dursley, you do not need to feel bad that you do not feel the need for romantic or sexual attachments."

Bile rose in Harry's throat. Romantic or sexual attachments? A spouse and kids would mean a romantic or sexual attachments. He had been worried about how to talk and interact with them as people, but of course for them there to be a spouses and kids, there would need to be a romantic and sexual attachments. He couldn't do that. Not ever. It was wrong. It wasn't allowed. If he did that, it would–-

He breathed before Snape could had to remind him to. "I know."

Snape searched himhis face. "Are you sure?"

"I'm sure."

Things weren't right. Were things supposed to go this way, all this time? When he was born, had there been some sort of destiny picked out for him, saying what was supposed to happen? Or had someone made a choice, creating an alternate time line, leading him where he was? Who made that choice, and when? What choice? Was it his choice, opening that desk drawer? Or his stupid fault, for trying to get Dudley in trouble? Perhaps it would not have happened had he not ran run for the loo from in the candy shop, and or then ruan back out so quickly. Perhaps it was that boy's fault for–- Piers, that was his name, wasn't it? It was funny how things once so important to him, he had were now long forgotten.

What would his world be like had Voldemort not captured him? Would he like girls? Would he have kissed someone before? Would he have liked it, instead of the mere thought making him ill? Would he like for people to touch him, without explicit consent? Would he have married Cho Chang, had lots of kids, and played Seeker for Manchester? Perhaps he would have contracted Dragon Pox and died. Perhaps Ron wouldn't have married Lavender. Maybe he would have married Hermione, or even Harry – Harry could have liked blokes. He had never had the chance to honestly find out. He didn't think he would have, but he had no way of knowing for sure.

Things were in such disarray, and the only person to blame for sure was the person Harry wanted to blame the least. It was Voldemort's fault everything was in such disorder. It was Voldemort's fault than that every time he thought of being Touched, he thought of Him. It was Voldemort's fault that snakes, large crowds of people, shrieks, simple back rubs, and tuna took him to a scary place, that they caused panic attacks that had caused him to be committed to a private health facility several times.

Or was it his fault? Snape had always said that Voldemort had only died through because of a loophole in the prophecy. A loophole involving Harry killing him. Harry had been responsible for Voldemort's death, despite Snape being the one to actually kill him. Had Voldemort not died, Harry would still be with him now. He would probably be happier in his that oblivion, than he was having to deal with what he had to deal with now.

It wasn't that Harry wanted to go back to that; he didn't want to go back to that at all. He didn't miss being Kitten, or crawling all about the floor. He didn't miss the Cruciatus, or the pain of hearing others tortured. But sometimes, late at night, when he wasn't being watched by the eyes, sometimes he thought he missed Voldemort himself. He wasn't sure. He knew he could never tell Snape that, though. It was a confusion he would have to carry with him, always.

* * *

_Harry James Potter lived in Devon with Severus Snaper for the rest of his life, and was the creator of may spells used regularly by the Wizarding population today. He died on November 10th, 2036, at the age of fifty-six, at home. The combined physical effects of the draining of Veneficus forty-one years prior led to the contraction of a common disease, to which he quickly succumbed to. He lived in Devon with Severus Snape for the rest of his life, and was the creator of many spells used regularly by the Wizarding population today._

_Remus Lupin never fully recovered from the time he spent captured by He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named. Despite the severe physical malformations obtained through torture and silver, he remained physically healthy throughout his life. The emotional trauma, however, was quite a different story. He died of an aneurysm at the age of ninety-one. He and Severus Snape (1960-2120) carried their secret to their graves._

_The world never became truly aware of what happened between He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named and Harry Potter in 1995. And how could they, as the sole survivor of the duo was hardly sure of what happened himself. Perhaps it remains is best left up to personal perception, and speculation. What everyone does know is that through whateverbecause of the turmoil, anguish, and disorder He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named caused, Harry Potter, The-Boy-Who-Lived, was never the same._

**The End**


End file.
